


An Abandoned Baby Bird

by NinjaWolfBaby



Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Abuse, Ageplay, Batman's A+ Parenting, Batman's a dick, Canon? What Canon?, Creepy Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Drama, Forgiveness, Gen, Godfather Slade, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, No Sex, Non-Consensual Spanking, Nonsexual-Ageplay, Not Batman friendly, Pacifiers, Slade doesn't start as a good guy, Slade grows a heart, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Spanking, corporal punishments, lying, lying about his age, playpens, stuffed animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 87,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaWolfBaby/pseuds/NinjaWolfBaby
Summary: Slade never imagined his perfect tool would be so easy to blackmail. After the Red-X incident, trust of the Titan's broken and leaving their little leader guilt ridden and desperate, he easily abducts the teenager.Among furious clashes between the two, secrets like poisoned fruit and bruises like twisted flowers, a glimmer of something more than the hero and villain ever thought possible grows. Both stuck in painful pasts, both taking a burden too large to handle, a powder keg resting over ever unpredictable fox-fire. Their only chance to gain more than scars and agony from the contact involves the only thing that even Slade fears more than death: Change.Can the eyes of a child truly see things a jaded man's cannot? Is there any soul too old and damaged to step off a doomed path? Or will hearts become too injured to reach out, will old temptations overrule the best of intentions?The only certainty either holds is they will never return to the way things were. Choices, small and large, have already removed the option, the only way now is up.





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Forgotten Bonds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/885594) by [Anthezar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthezar/pseuds/Anthezar). 



> Hi! This is... new. I've had the plan for a few years now, but when I started writing... Well, the thing is already nearly 20k long. And I haven't even started the main arc.  
> Im so lost, help me. This will be the the longest thing I've ever written and while the out line is fairly solid, I really wanted to start posting and getting some responses/ideas from you guys. So, I'm going to attempts to write on a schedule, but please forgive me if(when) i fail.

It started-- Well. It started a long time before that, but it was the last year at Wayne Manor that It came to a head. It wasn’t home-- not even in the batcave where Dick became Robin and Bruce became Batman-- not by a long shot, even the old stuffy name forbid that, being a Grayson, not a royal Wayne. Bruce never offered to change it for him, never asked to be anything but his guardian… and maybe that was part of it, part of why he kept finding himself on those kind of sites, history hastily deleted each and every night. Maybe… Maybe doesn’t matter, all that Mattered is that Bruce had found the one package he dared to order, after the incident with Joker, and suddenly Batman “doesn’t need a Robin. There is no Robin.” Those words hurt, worse than the still healing marks the mad clown left him with. Robin had tried, tried hard, but Bruce would not change his mind, the shouting match echoing through the large, mostly empty house.

Dick ran after that, took what little he could shove onto his bike and drove until the gas ran out. It had all looked the same at that point, green then grey cities and green again. It took a lot to empty a bat-bike of gas, and he had just filled up the day before, preparing for a patrol that never happened, so miles flew under the tires unnoticed. Jump City was nice, in a desperately awful kind of way. It needed heros, badly. And, Robin. Well, Robin needed a city, didn’t he? Heros weren’t much use without a place to protect, after all. It was a few lonely weeks, there, cleaning up muggers and mischief makers; until the city took notice and offered a hideout. He was a symbol then, proof the dockside city had finally grown into its own, had earned the attention of a protector. The large, abandoned tower stood in stark contrast to the gentle waves when he first saw it, large and empty and… lonely. 

Because it was lonely, at that time the other Titans weren’t around yet, trapped, or hiding, or off-world, it was just the young man, barely 12 at the time. He did, however, claim to be 14 and, he had taken the large, ugly building, kept an ear out for trouble and allies alike. . At least the large empty halls kept his crying secret, when money mysteriously appeared in his bank account, but Batman never left Gotham, never even sent a text to his ward. It had hurt at the time, but it got easier. The silence pulled less heavily on his chest at night, and shadows stopped making him jump. If he never took off his mask, if he never allowed Dick to shine through his Robin persona, who was to mind? There was no one to scold him about the importance of downtime, or remind him of the times social circles dropped case-cracking facts. There was no one. Period. 

Until there was.

Until Cyborg broke in, and just started… fixing his computer. Neither one asked questions, neither one wanted questions asked in return. It was just. One day Robin was alone. The next, he gained an ally and tech support far beyond even his advanced skills. Then Cyborg brought Beast Boy, shivering and changing form constantly due to his fear, and Beat boy found Raven and Starfire both within the next month. It was a sudden, if welcome, growth. The tower finally felt like home, at least. 

_Had_. The tower _had_ finally felt like home. Past tense. 

It was his fault, of course. 

He hadn’t thought that Batman had influenced him that much. That his lectures of mistrust and lone wolf rules had gotten that far under his skin. But it looked like it did. Because now, they hated him. They avoided his mask-covered eyes, stopped talking as he entered a room and, if he lingered, left the room in the same icy silence. It was torture and, thanks Two-Face, he could actually make the comparison and be fully aware of the truth of it. One week after the Red-X incident, and things still haven’t improved. It’s enough to make the young man bring down the box he swore he’d never touch again, staring at the plain brown cardboard in mingled disgust and want warring deeply in his chest. But, he needs some form of comfort, and it’s not like he can go out and gain it from his friends. He’s alone again. Might as well get through how he did the first time… Right? Still, he takes a deep breath and paces the length of his room, sweeping for bugs. Slade and other villains have, at some point or another, get cameras and recording equipment into each of their rooms. Never saw much, he kept his eyes hidden and checked frequently, but this is something he’d rather die than let be discovered. 

Today, thankfully, his room is clear. Nothing turns up even after his through check, and he sits heavily on his plain black bed. Already, the world is softer around the edges, a gentleness he never lets free growing in his chest. He shouldn't. He should be strong, fearless. Robin would be. Because the boy sitting on the bed isn’t Robin anymore. He may be wearing the mask, it still isn’t safe, but he’s infinitely more broken than the boy wonder ever could be. He’s fragile, and softer, and tears are already gathering in the corners of his eyes under the mask, a soft whimper falling. Robin is… not this. Robin doesn’t need this. This is why Batman kicked him out…

Still, Dick’s fingers curl closed over the soft cloth, lifting the stuffed animal out of the box first. It’s new, but a copy of the one his mother bought after his first birthday, a stuffed wolf that’s weighted enough to feel real as he picks it up. 

“Hey bud…” It’s soft, both in volume and force, free of even the playful commanding tone he has-- _had_ \-- with the Titans. It’s the voice of a lost little boy. The voice of the boy who just saw his parents die. The voice of a boy who got thrown into the care of someone cold and touchless. The voice of the boy who got buried a long time ago, never growing up, stuck at the tender age three and a half. He’s already sniffling, taking off the restricting Robin-armor and pulling on the soft blue fleece of his footie pajamas. He feels smaller like this, physically. His daily clothing has subtle bulk added, to help convince everyone he’s older than he actually is, and these are a bit baggy. Too loose to fight in, these ensure he's vulnerable, and feel soft and safe against pale skin. The wolf is pressed to his cheek, fur the slightest bit scratchy against his cheek and the scent comforting as a hug he desperately craves right now. Dick takes another, deeper breath of it, filling his lungs with the artificial fur scent and releasing a broken off cry. It hurts, like his chest is caving in on itself, and he wants to cry louder, wants someone, anyone to notice he's hurting and come to fix it. Predictably, no one does. No one even knows he’s crying, much less feels inclined to come comfort him. Instead, partly to silence himself, partly to attempt to remember how to calm down, his thumb presses against his lips. It’s not accepted, not right away, the pad rough from training and weapons. Chapped too, and it rest there until heavy, wet breaths soften the skin some. Only then will pale pink lips part, the very tip of his tongue reaching out to hesitantly welcome the appendage. Salty, and firm, with the tang of metal from his weapons and texture that his tongue maps. It takes a long time, suckling at the digit while his mask absorbs the shame filled tears and his body rocks with his grief. But, slowly,as masked eyes dry and lungs stop the awkward hitching, his thumb rotates, from pressing print down on his tongue to pressing against the roof of his mouth with his other four fingers curling over the bridge of his nose, pinky finger playing with the edge of his mask. It’s the most childlike he ever allows himself, and only when he can barely hold his eyes open. True to form, exhaustion hits, currently all cried out, and Dick… Dick sleeps. Hoping, sometime in the night, his friends will find it in themselves to forgive Robin. 

He’s completely unaware of the small, nearly undetectable, robot creeping from under his desk. There’s only room for one small eye and four toothpick thin legs far tougher than the delicate look implies, but it’s enough to place a sharp edged “S” flanked in orange and black. It whirs, lens tightening on the sleeping face, before withdrawing, sliding neatly under the door and click-click-clicking it’s way back to its home. It doesn’t know, there was no room for even a basic AI, but the footage it carries will change a young man’s life in new and terrifying ways. 

  
  


The next morning comes too bright and too early, Robin shifting unhappily on his bed. Even with the curtains drawn tight, his window catches the full brunt of the early dawn light, lighting the wall with every scrap of evidence he has on Slade. Despite himself, he smiles as he packs away the pjs and the stuffed wolf, it was… nice. He feels better, more alert, like something he’d been missing is going to suddenly fall into place. A cleansing rain washing away the dusty unsurety he’d been feeling. Who knows, it may be the day his friends start to thaw, especially if he goes through with his inclination to make breakfast. Surely at least Beast Boy will perk up if Robin makes his awful Tofu eggs with Almond milk? And Cyborg, if there’s meat, and plenty of it. Starfire and Raven are harder to cook for, as one likes everything and the other refuses to show enjoyment of anything. But they’ll come around. They’ve got to, with enough apologies and proof Robin does trust them, no really, he does. Robin even actually believes this, surprising himself with the willingness to believe things will be fine without proof. Maybe, just a hint of his smaller side is still hanging around, still finding hope in desolation. 

Unfortunately, the lightness in his heart doesn’t extend to the rest of the tower. They’ve already eaten, rejecting his offers of breakfast to instead walk out the door, the T-car’s brakes squealing unhappily down the tunnel to Jump City’s main shopping mall.

“So, the little bird’s all alone, hmm?” It comes from nowhere and everywhere, as Slade’s voice tends to, echoing creepily in the large below ground parking garage. Robin jumps, hands still half raised to ask the car to wait, to ask for a chance for forgiveness. “Tsk, Tsk, Robin. You should know better by now, there’s a reason why little birds flock together.” 

It’s the barest whisper of sound that makes Robin duck, a scrape of boots against the grimy floor he’s now intimately acquainted with, but it saves him from a leather gloved hand to his stomach. A fast gloved hand, at that. And an even faster foot, arcing down like a bolt of Zeus's lighting in the Greek Myths. He barely rolls away in time, swearing lowly as another attack follows. There’s no going on the offensive right now. There’s not even enough time to go on he defensive. There’s barely enough time to dodge, dodge _dodge!_ , away from the man who’s moving quicker than the Titan had ever seen with his own two eyes. Without being able to even voice his surprise, Robin focus on breathing, barely gaining his feet. It’s a continuous onslaught, feet and fists and low, taunting chuckles. 

Why the hell is Slade even here? There’s normally a few months between his attacks, always just long enough Robin begins to think the mercenary has left Jump. They just fought a week ago, and Dick had held his own then. This is completely out of character and he bares his teeth, dodging a particularly fast blow by the skin of his teeth, mentally swearing and trying to take a step back, only to be met with a wall to his back, and a fist to his cheek. Something breaks the skin, there's a warm trickle of blood as he grabs Slade’s arm and flips himself up and over the man’s back.

It’s impossible to dodge all of the blows,-- especially when that wall comes from nowhere to hem him in again, where did that come from!?-- and his entire body is already protesting when Slade sweeps aside the one of the few punches he manages to throw, to grab him around the throat and lift. Dangling, and breathing heavily under the hand coiled with deadly precision over his throat, Robin attempts to growl at the older man, kicking weakly. That only gets another laugh, and his body being lifted another inch away from the ground. 

“You’re mine, Robin. You remember that now.” Through the single eye-slit, steel blue narrows and the gloved hand tightens to the point of pain, and then past. Robin’s heart stutters and skips, realizing the pressure over his neck is effectively cutting off the blood supply to his brain. Already the room is looking darker in the corners, the black and orange mask blocking the rest of his vision. In one final, vain, attempt at defiance, he gathers what little moisture is left in a terror-struck mouth, purses his lips and spits. It’s mixed with his own blood, but the spittle sliding down the orange mask lets him bare his teeth in a parody of a smile, body going limp under the pressure holding him upright. “You’ll learn quickly enough not to do that, little boy, trust me on that.”

Slade smiles. The boy did well. Not to his caliber, of course, but well enough to actually come in person. Screens and robots did well enough, but even thoroughly programmed, they didn’t have the sheer human ingenuity that Robin breathed like air. That ingenuity always allowed the now sleeping male to defeat the bots. Not easily, not without bruises and pain, but there was never really a question if he was going to succeed. Against a human partner, against _Him_ , Robin never stood a chance. 

He recognized it, too. There were no futile vows spoken, no snarls or other wasted air. Robin had been focused, silent and probably deadly to any of the regular riff raff his friends kept off the streets. With the proper… motivation, Robin will be the perfect apprentice. Behind the mask, still covered in spit and blood, Slade smiles a little wider. While this, this bright and firey boy, is good; he is almost excited to see what happens when that spirit is broken, when Robin comes to his hand like a properly broken and trained bird.


	2. Robin's First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much I wanted to post this earlier But, I promised. Saturdays.  
> Also, my sister is working for you guys, I swear. She has me already writing a much, much fluffier sequel and I'm even a third finished with the first part.

It’s hard to beat, but his wake-up is almost worse than how Robin finally passed out. The muscles that took a beating earlier are stiff and unwieldy, there's an eternal clanking surrounding him like a physical blow with each dull grind of metal gears, he’s cold and dumped on an unforgiving metal surface and a booted foot is nudging him in the middle of his back, pushing until his body rolls over and he has to force his eyes open, less he be even more vulnerable in the presence of Slade. Not like that's really possible, he was just knocked out for only God knows how long, the fact his mask is still in place is cold comfort, Slade could have easily taken it off, seen who he was and replaced the little black fabric. 

“Hello, Robin.” Speaking of, the hated voice drawls, darkly amused and followed with a sharper nudge to already bruising ribs. 

“Slade!” It’s as much a plea as a curse, and it’s ripped from Robin’s lips without his permission. That nudge hurt, badly, so he rolls again, forcing his reluctant, pained body up onto his hands and knees. It’s a pathetic attempt to prevent Slade from kicking him again, and the thought is proven correct, as Slade kicks him hard. The force of it lifting his sore body up and propelling it through the air to land, painfully, on more metal grating. The younger man groans, trying to gain his feet but it's too late. Slade already has a handful of his hair, forcing his cheek back to the floor. He’s kneeling next to the hero, knee pressed into the small of Robin’s back; warm breath washing over the side of Robin’s head, teasing his ungelled hair and smelling slightly of… tea? It’s such a strange thing to notice, bent uncomfortably and twisted, a hand harshly pinning him to the floor, like a disobedient dog, but it proves Slade’s not another robot, it’s actually a flesh and blood man behind Robin. The thought shouldn't be so comforting, especially because Slade isn’t even toying with him, he’s merely proving his vast superiority over the younger male. But… if it is Slade, and not a robot… That means there a weakness. Humans, all of them, have weaknesses robots do not. Robin just has to find it.

He renews his struggle against the hand holding him down, hand twisted into claws reaching behind him. He’s looking for some clasp, some hook, anything that may undo the glove, let him dig his nails into whatever skin would be revealed. Slade grabs his wrist, twisting it up and behind Robin’s own back, the strain pulling sharply at his ribs and working a full bodied yelp from his throat. It's impossible not to try and squirm away, but a little more pressure, a slight tug, and now his shoulder is in real danger of being dislocated. He is forced to still, panting roughly into the floor, as Slade chuckles from above him, petting lightly at his hair.

“Now that I have your attention properly, Robin, I am going to make this very clear for you. You hold none of the power here. You will never hold any of the power here. Another display, like earlier will result in you being beaten. Like this.” Robin is released, the hand leaving his hair to reappear in the middle of his back. Even though it’s useless, he tries to get up, tries to even the footing between them. It’s only when he gets his chest off the unforgiving floor that Slade strikes, sweeping his arms out from under him and following the kick with a punch to the middle of the boys back. 

It’s the third time in as many minutes he’s been harshly forced to the floor, and he stays prone for a moment, unable to resist as Slade effortlessly picks him up, shaking him firmly. He’s too close again, Robin notices, nose to nose with the mask, seeing dried blood from-- from earlier! Self preservation-- rarely seen in the hero but this is not a normal fight, this is not a normal, this is not-- forces him to quickly speak up, because Slade’s arms are tensing and that can only mean--

“Slade!” The fist stops a millimeter from his stomach, each shivering breath rubs his shirt against the leather. “I-I’m s-sorry.” He pants, already flinching because that can’t be all, surely that can't be it, Slade isn’t going to just let him go. It’s can't be that easy… Right? An apology isn’t going to stop the man, who seems intent on beating him unconscious. And, it looks like he’s right, the single grey eye narrowing and arms moving again. Robin flinches, closing his eyes tight and waiting but, apparently, Slade _is_ just going to let him down, even supporting the teen weight when it wobbles dangerously, knees unwilling to support him. 

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it, Robin? A little humility will do you good in life, huh?” His voice is smug, satisfied. Leaving Robin to stand on his own, which he manages, barely, Slade turns quickly. “Follow me.” 

His tone informs Robin exactly what will happen if he disobeys, so the shivering teen slowly shuffles after. Each step feels like a hundred, and he’s lead through a small door in one of the walls of the giant gear filled room. The next room is… surprisingly normal. A couch, a TV, a wall of swords, a low coffee table, where a teapot is sitting. It looks like his waking interrupted Slade’s tea, if the half eaten sandwich is any indication. That explains the odd scent that captured his attention in the other room, at least. 

“Sit.” A silver tipped hand gestures to one of the armchairs. Robin hesitates, thinking for just a moment too long. Slade advances, hand raised. Robin sits. “Good boy. That is the only time I will let that slide. You are to obey me. Without question and without hesitation. Understand?”

Robin hesitates again, mouth working in silence and feeling distinctly wrong footed. Thankfully the older man seems to accept the silence as Robin tries to work out the proper response, lifting the two toned metal just high enough to let the rim of his tea cup slip under it. 

What… What is going on? The Robin is so confused, eyebrows drawn together over his mask, awkwardly shifting in the plush chair and hissing slightly as it stings his various injuries. He… He doesn’t deal well with confusion. Clearly. As all the encounters with Slade had confused him, and he’d merely been inflamed to hunt the man down. A dumb decision, clearly. Uneasy, and reacting poorly to that, Robin decides to go on the offensive, straightening his shoulders in an attempt to look taller, more put together. He narrows his eyes, setting his jaw and glaring over at the tea-drinking criminal.

“What do you want from me, Slade?” Finally deciding to completely ignore the question, Robin instead demands an answer. An answer he’s not given, as Slade sighs, setting the tea down and standing again. Robin’s stomach drops, a pit of ice forming as the man stalks closer. He’s regretting his harsh, demanding tone when Slade towers above him, single eye narrowed and a cold, deadly aura filling the air between the two. Robin resists the urge to shrink back into the couch, wishing the surprisingly comfortable material would open up and swallow him whole. He doesn’t let that show, instead lifting his chin and staring directly into Slade’s visible eye, acting as if he isn’t nearly pissing himself in fear of the man.

“Stand.” Slade commands, firm and unyielding and showing exactly no inclination to move back so Robin could actually obey the snapped order. 

“What do you want from me!?” He repeats instead, hating how short he was as Slade’s shoulders tense, a short growl emitting from the masked face. Maybe pissing off the man is not the way to go, maybe Robin could take a deep breath, try to obey, retreat and regroup. But… after the stress of the week, it’s almost nice to fight, to let his temper have free rein. Just… the wrong target, apparently, as there's a slightly deeper breath and...

“Stand!” It’s an instinctive response to stand at that voice-- no, not even the voice, it’s a roar that escapes Slade. A scream that will not be denied, Robin’s limbs ignoring his commands to jerk upright, his nose actually brushing against Slade’s chest piece in his haste to obey. Instantly, his neck is gripped, hard and probably leaving bruises in his pale skin, and he’s being drug towards the door they just exited. Unable to keep pace with the other’s steps, Robin’s mostly supported by the single grip on his neck, jerked forward if he tries to pull back.

“Slade! Slade! No, please!” Body still aching and knowing nothing good is going to come from being pushed out that door, Robin abandons his pride for the moment, begging shamelessly for mercy. Mercy Slade seems unwilling to give. They’re inches away from the door, Robin as still as his adrenaline fueled veins will allow him to be, trying to show Slade he’s listening, he’s going to… not do whatever set the man off. Already, he’s scared of the man; more so than ever before, frozen and heart rapidly beating against the cage of his chest. Screw defiance, and whatever nonsense he was thinking about earlier. He has to give, now, before he has broken bones and nothing else to show for it. “I’m sorry! I’ll be good. Please!”

Are those his words? It’s his voice, Robin’s voice, but words closer to Dick than he ever wanted to be. And in front of Slade of all people. Slade, who stops, hand reaching out towards the door, to instead look down at him, Robin can feel the intense scrutiny heaped upon him, trembling slightly under the heavy hand. He can’t, not right now, he can’t go back in there and get the crap kicked out of him. He won't be able to take it. Already, tears are starting to try and well up, the fear and dismay combining with his weakness from the night before. It’s so much harder to keep his gentle, kind side hidden right now. It wants to break free, start sobbing and whimpering and hoping the pathetic display ignites some, what?, hidden protective urge in Slade? That's nonsense, if he acted in any way vulnerable right now, Slade would only use that as an excuse to rip him all the more slowly apart.

“You’ll be good?” Slade asks, incredulous doubt strong in his voice. “You will obey? You will not back talk?” 

Frantically, Robin nods, yelping a conformation as he does so. Slade takes a step back from the door, dragging Robin with him, and Robin is released for a moment, only to crash into the couch from a mighty backhanded slap. It hurts, yes, but he knows its heads and shoulders better than the least he would have gotten in the other room and so takes it without complaint, gingerly sitting up once it’s clear Slade isn’t going to turn on him again. The mercenary is just watching him now, sitting on the armchair he forcibly evicted Robin from and reaching for his tea. Robin doesn't flinch. He doesn't. He just… Jumps a little. It’s fair to expect Slade to attack him without provocation, he's already shown he doesn’t have a problem with it. 

“Now that that… unpleasantness is dealt with, let’s have ourselves a conversation.” It’s not a suggestion, though there’s a glint in his eye that seems to ask Robin to take it as one, so Slade can further prove his position, can show he can do as he pleases here. Though no one has ever claimed Robin to be anything but stubborn, he knows when he’s beat, slowly nodding. Slade inclines his head, gesturing to the table where another tea set is placed out. “Make yourself a cup of tea.”

It has to be a trap. Somehow. But Robin doesn’t hesitate, knowing no amount of pleading, or going limp or anything will still Slade’s hand a third time. He doesn't pause, willing his shaking hands not to spill, not to let the sturdy teapot fall or clink against the glass top of the coffee table as he shakily sets it back down, adding lots of sugar and cream to his tea to help with the mild shock he feels seeping into his bones. The cup is warm, soothing, a balm to his shot nerves, and his hands reflexively clench around it, pulling it up to his face, even if he doesn’t drink right away. He’ll just… hold it here for a moment. A shield, however flimsy, against the reclining man, who nods, lifting his mask again. Robin can barely catch the hint of his jaw line, maybe some kind of beard? The rest is too hidden in shadows to give him any clues what his long time enemy looks like. 

“So you can be taught.” Slade acknowledges, after Robin finally takes a small sip of the lightly flavored tea and puts the cup down, rubbing his hands together to ward off the chill that invades in the absence of the warmth. “Good. Very good. That’s something you’re going to have to do a lot of, to survive here painlessly. Because you are going to survive here, Robin. However, it is entirely your choice if you just survive or thrive. You could thrive here, you know, you and I are very much alike.” He breaks off for a moment, watching Robin with all the focus and cunning of a starved cat watching a mouse-hole. “I will not tolerate disobedience, or backtalk, or failure to exceed my expectations. You will improve. You will learn under me. And, eventually, you will become my apprentice, a living extension of my will, a vessel for all my knowledge, all my power to be stored.”

Since the start of the pretty little speech, Robin’s stomach sank, and by the end, it was oozing right around his feet. Apprentice? No… he can’t possibly mean… Killing, stealing? Becoming no better than the people the Titans, than Batman even, put away every day? He can’t imagine it, shaking his head futilely. 

“I-I can’t.” His voice shakes, but at least it doesn’t offend Slade, who merely sets his own cup down, leaning forward. His elbows rest on his knees, and his fingers steeple themselves in front of the four slits in the front of his mask. “Slade! I can’t I-I’m not a criminal, I can’t going around killing people!”

Unbidden, the memory of his parents play out behind his eyes, their fall, their sudden stop. The sound of their bodies hitting the floor and the guilty-relieved look in the circus owner’s eye, relief it wasn’t him. That… that was because of the same kind of criminal Slade wants Robin to be, uncaring of who he hurts so long as he gets what he wants, so long as he's well paid to scrub the blood out from under his nails. He shivers, shaking his head without truly realizing it, and looking away from his own shaking hands, clean, for the moment. The thought of blood on them… the thought of hurting people… that makes his stomach flip, threatening to spill what little he’s managed to keep down the past week. 

“You will be, Robin, or you will spend a very large amount of time in a very large amount of pain. I know how to make you scream for hours, until you wish you were dead. And I know how to nurse you back to health. I can show you, if you disbelieve me?” He actually acts like Robin might agree with that, black and orange mask tilting in the well lit room. It strikes Robin then, how ridiculous they both look, armored if only one of them is actually armed, in a completely normal looking living room. It could be anywhere, on the bad reality shows Starfire likes to watch, in the magazines that keep being delivered despite none of them asking for it. This kind of room hosts families, not killers. Not a reluctant hero and a smug villain. Like turning through molasses, Robin shakes his head, feeling disconnected and far away from reality. It feels like this is a nightmare, like this is happening to someone else. And any minute Star is going to wake him up, a hand to his shoulder, a smile on her face. She has to. This-- this can’t be reality. Right? This can’t be real. Slade continues to talk, but it doesn’t register, not until there’s a hand capturing his chin and lifting slightly, Slade’s mask coming into slow, reluctant focus. 

“And that’s enough for today. Come, Wintergreen will patch you up. Tomorrow will be your first day of training and I want you to be fresh for it.” Like a puppet, connected solely to Slade, Robin rises when Slade tells him to, absently wonder who, or what, Wintergreen was, as they leave the surreal living room and climb a small set of stairs.

Wintergreen, as it turns out, is an elderly gentleman butler, who takes one look at him and frowns, looking sharply over at Slade. Slade, who actually avoids the other man’s eyes and shrugs, putting one hand on Robin’s shoulder to push him further into the warm kitchen and the butler’s hands. Said butler immediately starts turning his head this way and that. Looking at his split lip, Robin realizes after a moment. Must have happened when Slade slapped him, as the others hits were all concentrated where his shirt is covering. Or, now that he think of it, hissing when his tongue probes the swollen area, maybe when he went flying and hit the metal grating that makes up the floor in the gear-filled room. 

“Where else is he injured?” Wintergreen has a brisk, no nonsense tone, strict and disapproving. Disapproving of him? Robin wonders, the thought floating away after a brief moment of worry spent on it. Everything is hard to hold onto right now, slippery and difficult to pin down. Slade gestures to the entirety of Robin’s chest, shrugging again.

“We had some issues. They’re worked out now.” He assures, stepping back as Wintergreen strips Robin. Robin, who is standing still and quiet, a far away look in his eyes. No wonder Wintergreen is concerned, the boy barely reacts when skilled old hands press over the worst of the bruising, looking for dislocations or broken ribs. Not that Slade would have miscalculated by that much, but the old man is already taking a shine to the little bird, if the disapproval Slade sees in his eyes when he’s looking over how thin the boy is, the bruises blooming in dark purples and blacks already; is any indication. Robin is still silent when Wintergreen turns him, sucking in a small, dismayed breath at whatever he finds and pulling the red padded shirt over the thin shoulders. “What was that look for?” 

Wintergreen ignores him, instead turning over Robin’s hand gently, studying his hand with single minded focus. His knuckles are split, in a few different places, apparently, among the other injuries Wintergreen has Slade get the first-aid kit for. Mostly, it seems, it’s just bad bruising, a few lacerations that are carefully bandaged, and the gentle application of bruise-cream. Through it all, Slade is banished to the opposite side of the kitchen island, watching Robin’s still lifeless features and wintergreen appearing and disappearing around the small boy body. Who still isn't saying anything. He’s awake, responding to the wordless push or pull Wintergreen gives, but it’s like look at a doll.

Something that may have been alive once, but isn’t any longer. 

It’s… distinctly unnerving, and Slade is relieved to nod when his butler looks questioningly in the direction of the steam room. Some time in there will do Robin good, prevent any lingering soreness. With a good meal after, and a proper night's sleep, he should be able to train without undue pain. Though, with how mouthy he is, it’s unlikely to stay that way. He stays silent, contemplating how the boy reacted earlier, both times he was grabbed by the back of his neck. It was almost funny, how quickly he settled down with the commanding touch, not to mention the look of sheer surprise when Slade broke out his best impression of his former drill-sergeant. It may be just his imagination, but there’s been a flash of something across that face. Something he knows he'd be able to decipher, if that mask hadn’t been on. It’s already planned the mask is going to go, but it may be a bit sooner than previously thought. 

Slade stays there, staring at the marble counter but seeing nothing for a long, long time, musing over the boy he has chosen.

  
  
  
  


Robin is still in his shocked state when Wintergreen gently pushes him into the wooden room at the end of one of the many short hallways they traveled through. Each was only a few feet long, with two or three sets of door on each side, leading to… yet again more halls? He can’t bring himself to truly care, blandly watching the old man lift his hand to the side of each door, waiting for it to buzz then walking through. This seems to concern the elderly gentleman more than even his scarred back had. He doesn't say anything, though, until they’re in the too-warm, humid room, and the door is solidly shut behind them.

“This will help, boy, take off your shirt.” It’s gentle, but every bit as brisk as he was earlier, when his hands had unerringly ghosted over the marks left both from Slade and… and before that. Resisting the memories is easier, right now, likely because he’s in the middle of a nightmare that could end up being much, much worse than what Joker had done, and so Robin obeys. The air instantly warms the exposed skin and he winces as he moves. This is less than ideal, as it draws Wintergreen’s keen eyes to him. “What hurts the worst?”

“Nothing.” It’s sharper than he intended, looking away from the old man, just in case he deals with disrespect the same way Slade did. Which is to say, not kindly. It just that as his body recognizes the fact that the one hurting him is gone, the protective haze of nothingness that had been dulling his pain is lifting. And he hurts, down in his bones, bruised and feeling near broken. 

“I wasn’t born yesterday, boy, I know you’re in pain. If you tell me where, I can fix it.” There's something like kindness in the old wrinkled face, but Robin stops himself from speaking, shaking his head. He doesn’t want kindness, not from Slade, not from this old man. He just wants to go home, and try and make the wreckage into a home again. Thankfully, Wintergreen just sighs, bending to one of the rich smelling cabinets and pulling out a pair of loose swim trunks. “At least put these on, it’ll only get harder to peel those leggings off the longer you steam. And the steam will help you tomorrow.” 

“I just want to go home.” Quietly, Robin protests, not making a move towards the offered clothing. It’s true. He only gets a long sigh in response, briefly remind Robin of Alfred, when himself or Bruce did something particularly reckless. It was as sigh that spoke of resignation and helpless frustration.

“I know. But you can’t. Even I have areas, doors, I cannot pass. The system requires a two part authentication before you pass, and only if you have received the proper permission to enter the next area. Not to mention, this base is intentionally built like a maze, and only Slade and myself know the required path to get out.” Anger sparks inside the young man for a moment, eyes flashing behind his mask as he jerks his head up.

“I could just make you take me that way, then!” He growls, straightening and taking a menacing step closer to the old man.

“And become a criminal? Like Slade wants you to? You very well could make me, boy, use your skills to intimidate and scare me, but is that what you actually want? I haven’t done anything to you, after all, you have no idea if Slade is keeping me, just like he's keeping you.” Not that Slade was, of course, but it seems to deflate the boy, biting his lip and turning his head away. It was, probably, unkind of him, to manipulate Robin. But he wasn’t lying, Robin could easily force him to show him the way out, but the consequence were something he had no intentions of witnessing. So, manipulation it was. 

“... sorry.” And it even caused the younger to apologize, shuffling closer to grab the orange and black fabric, pulling them on after another moment of hesitation. “My name is Robin, you know…”

“No, it’s not. You don’t have to share your identity right away, but I for one refuse to call you a vigilante's name, and I’ll wager Slade won’t either.” The boy grunts, settling on one of the low benches and sighing. Good. A little quiet will be much needed, before supper.


	3. Slade meets a Baby Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin doesn't take being a captive very well.  
> Slade doesn't handle disobedience very well.  
> In the middle of Slade demonstrating how poorly he handles disobedience, Robin ages down in a desperate attempt to end the punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon everyone! How are you? Good, I hope?

The old man is… weird. 

In a good way, Robin thinks. He’s not being cruel, not doing much of anything, really. But, as they sit, he keeeps glancing over, frown growing until it’s a full blown glower. Eventually, Wintergreen doesn’t stop himself, looking away and asking, gently.

“Who gave you those marks? On your back?” Robin had flinched at that, he’ll admit it. He hadn’t been fully aware when Wintergreen had been tending to his ribs, and now it’s too late. There was a reason he didn’t take off his shirt much.

“No one.”

“So they appeared by magic?” Wintergreen shakes his head, knowing that simply wasn’t the case. 

“No.”

“So?”

Robin just shakes his head, standing and shrugging back into his shirt. That’s enough questions. 

“Can I at least go to bed?” It’s weird, asking, but the handle won’t turn under his hand, and the finger scanner flashes red when he tries to press his thumb to the tiny screen. Of course. He has to have an escort to even get out of the steam room.

“You have to eat first, and then ask Slade. I’m not here to be your caretaker, that’s his job.” Well, that's just great. Robin makes a face, while he wait for Wintergreen to stand, opening the door and leading them both through the maze of hallways to the kitchen again. Slade’s there, staring at the counter. He looks up, though, when the two re-enter, blinking a few times at whatever he sees on Robin’s face. 

Silent, unwilling to risk getting beat by saying what's on his mind, Robin sits under WIntergreen’s guiding hand, poking at the mashed potatoes he brings over. His plate is heaped compared to the other two, at least double what he can even contemplate eating on a good day. Today is not a good day. 

Of course, his lack of enthusiasm is remarked on, about fifteen minutes after sitting down. 

“Robin. Eat.” It’s the first words to break the sounds of silverware against the porcelain plates, Slade glancing over, glaring through the small hole in the otherwise featureless mask. 

“Kinda hard to be hungry after you’ve been kidnapped.” Is the muttered reply, the boy idly stabbing his spoon into the mess he’s made, mashed potatoes and corn mixed to make a disgusting lumpy mess. He doesn’t seem to care, making patterns without a particular design in mind. But, when he looks down, the words ‘Help Me’ are written in his sharply slanted script. Anger boils sharply in his gut as he sees that, smoothing the hills and valleys with a sharp flick of his spoon. 

“Robin.” Slade’s voice has hardened, a warning. 

A warning Robin should heed, if he wants to spend the rest of the night in the least amount of pain possible. He doesn’t though, unruly hair flopping back as he raises his head quickly, mask contorting with the muscles underneath and teeth bared in a stubborn scowl. 

“I said I’m not fucking hungry Slade! Or are you going to try and control that too?” He snaps, pushing the plate away from him. It slides across the unadorned table, nearly traveling the full length, stopped from falling off only by Slade’s hand, stilling the plain white plate and glaring at Robin.

“Do you truly want to do this, Robin?” There’s that warning again, telling Robin to stop, to settle back down, to stop aggravating Slade like this. It doesn’t work. The idea of Slade attempting to even control how much or when he ate was so repugnant that Robin doesn’t think twice, standing up to match Slade's sitting height. Slade was not his father, or his boss. He sure as hell wasn’t going to get away with acting like either one!

“What I want is for you to drop dead Slade! Or, seeing as you’re too obnoxious to just die like that, Let me get the hell out of this place!” Robin raises his voice with each word, tensing and ready for a fight. A fight he already knows he’s going to lose, but his anger doesn’t let him dwell on that for long, instead balling his fists and jumping onto the table, the very table Slade grabbed the edge of, lifting up to throw it. Or, he was lifting it up, before Wintergreen’s hands slam down on it, the sound surprisingly loud in the large dining area.

“If you two insist on doing this, I’m going to insist it happens after supper and in the other room, I will not have you making a mess in here when there is no good reason to.” Robin stops cold, adrenaline already racing in his veins and glaring at both of the others. He doesn’t want to be here, he won’t, and nothing either of them do will stop him! However, if what Wintergreen said earlier was true, about Slade keeping him against his will too; then… then he’d consider listening to the old man. After he sees what Slade does. Because, if Slade attacks, Robin will as well. He won’t just allow himself to be used! To be turned into something he’s not or forced to do cruel things for money. Money he has no use for, and obviously neither does Slade, the tech and huge lair proving he’s in no trouble financially. He pants, glaring at Slade, as he takes several long deep breaths, each exhale coming out in more of a growl than a breath. 

“I'm done.” Slade says smoothly, dropping his used napkin on top of his plate, pushing it away. The chair scraping against the ground is a whispered threat, coiled grace in every muscle as the man stands. 

“I was never hungry to begin with!” 

“I told you I expected to be obeyed without question!” Robin would reply, but Wintergreen is already pointing towards the door hiding the staircase to the living room, and the strange metal room beyond that. Slade nods, snapping his fingers and pointing to the spot just to the left of his side. “Either you come here, now, get what’s coming to you and eat the rest of your supper in a great deal of pain, or I will come over, force feed you and _then_ bring you down to the workroom. Trust me, both of us would vastly prefer the former.” 

Even in his anger, and damnit, Robin ignited that in him far too easily, Slade was cunning. He wanted to see if it continued, the easy submission to a commanding touch. This was as good a time as any, especially with the boy spitting mad. Maybe it was just that when he actually had a grip on Robin, the teen knew what was coming to him and properly feared it. Whatever the reason, the little mystery was going to be solved. Tonight. It looked like Robin wasn’t going to come closer either, hand instinctively falling to his belt, where his bird-a-rangs were normally kept. Of course, Slade is smarter than keeping an armed bird in his grasp, his talons had been carefully searched for and removed during the brief period of forced rest the boy had before waking in the workroom. 

“Eat crud, Slade! I should have told you this from the very beginning! I am not going to be your apprentice! And I am not going to let you order me around like you have any right!” 

“Aren’t you? Admit it, Robin, you find this thrilling, and you’ll continue to find it thrilling, fighting with me.” Slade takes a few steps forward, pleased when Robin doesn’t turn, doesn't run. It makes it stupidly easy to grab his wrist, turn and pull the boy flush to his chest, and sit heavily in a chair. Robin is pulled onto his lap a second later, the plate passed back to them by a helpful Wintergreen. 

“No! Listen! I said _NO_ Slade!” Robin thrashes, the man’s hold is complete though, and all he accomplishes is looking like a fool. And, letting a spoonful of his now-cold concoction into his mouth. It doesn’t taste bad, WIntergreen actually cooked it way better than what he’s been eating with the titans, but by now it’s the principle of the thing. He doesn’t want to eat, he doesn't want to do anything that will make Slade be content. He doesn’t have a choice now, Slade pulling the spoon away and sealing his hand over Robins mouth. When Robin tried to bite the gloved hand, Slade’s free hand grabs a hold of his ear, twisting until Robin lets go, leaning down to whisper in his captive’s ear.

“Behave, Robin.” The voice is too close, far too close. And the embrace is far too hug-like for Robin, back to chest and Slade’s breath ghosting over his ear. It… It’s intense, and he shivers, trying to squirm away. It’s too warm, too calming. It brings him back, to the last time he remembers being touched like this, being held and cared for. It brings to mind his mother, how she never seemed to mind having him hang off her back, or around her neck like a child sized necklace. He had always clung to her, a little burr, around the circus. The presence behind him, it’s not hers, its hard and cold and frightening to his crumbling defenses. That, actually, is what makes him still, accepting the mouthful of chilled food and swallowing it. He doesn’t even fight the second spoonful, closing his eyes tightly and wishing everything would disappear. He could go back, find a safe hidden corner to curl up in and let himself go back, be small and soft. There is no space for softness now, trembling frantically in this man’s hold, knowing pain is coming, knowing there is nothing he can do to stop it. The man doesn’t seem to mind his odd submission, as Slade just keeps force feeding him, until the plate is empty and he’s standing again.

He’s stuck somewhere between Robin and Dick, half wanting to meet blow for blow and half wanting to beg for leniency. Slade grabs his shoulder this time, pulling him down to the workroom, through the oddly-normal looking living room. The door’s barely open before Slade is rounding on him, ruthlessly slapping him across the face and, as he falls, appearing behind him and slamming him into the ground, knee digging into his back as he groans. 

The boy isn’t fighting back. 

Not that he was before, not really, but now he’s just trying to curl in on himself, protect his head and stomach. That’s fine, Slade is looking to discipline, not permanently injure, he can protect those areas all he wants, there's plenty of other place where Slade can make his displeasure clear. He gives the prone form a vicious kick, sending it rolling pathetically away. This is, unexpected. The disappointment that Robin isn't even attempting to stave him off. Especially, when he stalks over to give another incentive to just behave, the young hero gives a choked off cry. Not fighting back, curling in on himself, those might have been able to be explained by exhaustion or pain, but Robin has never cried. And during some of their rougher battles, Slade knows the bird has endured far worse than this without the slightest sound parting his lips. To do so now… Why? It’s not to try and gain sympathy, he’s currently shoving his entire fist in his mouth to stifle the small sounds, had Slade miscalculated? Had he injured the boy worse than he intended?

Something tells him that’s not the case, that he wasn’t _that_ mad at the boy, but he still stops his assault, instead kneeling by Robin's side, hand pulling at a shoulder until Robin is forced to turn to him. He’s still in the fetal position, knees up tight against his stomach and hands covering the back of his neck, and the small spark of worry in Slades mind grows. Something is definitely wrong.

“Robin?” He questions,not allowing his voice to soften, not even enough to show he’s not intending on beating the boy further right now. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“P-p-p-piss off, Sl-Slade!” It takes a few tries, but the words are finally understandable, watery and weak. 

Slade sighs, noisily, through his nose and shakes the boy. Hard.

“I said, tell me what's wrong.” His voice has a bit of a bark in it, stern and unyielding, but… there’s something else there too. Something softer. Something he hasn’t heard since-- since his family. It’s a shock to hear it now, but it has to be the fact the boy is crying, shoulders shaking with the force of his restraint.

It’s the voice of a father.

This is happening. This is actually happening now. Robin feels himself crumbling, the barriers he needed to stay strong disappearing with every second he spends in front of his worst enemy. The gentle tone is the last straw, brushing away the last of his older, capable self and leaving a terrified toddler behind. A toddler that only knows someone strong is nearby, someone who would be able to protect them. So, logically, when Slade shakes his shoulder again, Dick does the only thing he can think of: launching himself into the older man’s arms with a long wail of pain and fear. 

Of all the possibilities Slade had accounted for, this was not one of them. He knew about the child's ageplay, of course, Robin was good but he wasn't good enough to catch all of Slade’s bugs, but this? Never. His weight is heavy, and he's shivering, trembling in his distress. It's strange, unsettling, to have the boy bawling into his chest, and he finds one of the cameras in the room, blinking twice slowly.

There's a crackle of static, before Wintergreen’s voice is heard.

“Slade?”

“Come here.” After a brief acknowledgement, the communication is shut off, Slade looking down at the mess of black hair that is his apprentice.

“Come back to yourself, Robin.” Devoid of the softer tone that seemed to set him off earlier, Slade voice is frigid, commanding. It's one hes used many times before, each securing whatever obedience he wished. This time, however, all it won him was a head shake, a vehement denial and more tears. Irritation rises hot and thick in Slade’s chest, shaking the younger man once. “I said come back to yourself!” 

There's no more response, unless the trembling increasing can be counted, and it's only when Wintergreen enters the room that Slade looks up. He's about ready to strike the child. 

“Slade? Is he…?” Wintergreen starts, trailing off into an expectant silence. 

“Mentally, I'd say around three, maybe four.” The answer is more of a guess than anything, that's the age he was given to the bat, but Slade still nods. That sounds right. He should have figured out the ageplay, if Robin even knew that's what he was doing, was a reaction to stress. Should have seen it when Robin gave in to him, whenever he touched his shoulder or neck. He shakes the boy again, hoping to startle _some_ sort of response out of him. Except, the younger man just whimpers again, pressing closer to Slade’s armored chest. 

“I believe you're frightening him by doing that.” Dry as a desert, Wintergreen interjects, seeing Slade about to shake the boy again. “Why not put him to bed? See if he's out of it in the morning?” 

He better be out of it. With how the boy is clinging to him, Slade has little choice if he wants to carry him to bed or not, Robin was stuck fast. In fact, as the mercenary stands, Robin has the gall to wrap his legs around Slade’s waist, holding on firmly despite the fact Slade doesn’t put a steadying hand under him, or gives any other sign he’s even aware of his passenger. Only Wintergreen can fully appreciate the single minded fury in his friend’s eye; anger at the unexpected development and Robin’s refusal to fall into expected patterns both.

“Release me.” He’s carried the blasted boy to bed, still, five minutes later, Slade is stuck dealing with a unwanted burden. Every time he manages to dislodge one limb, Robin reattaches elsewhere, including to try and hang on to Slade’s mask. That one had nearly been painful, as Robin hadn’t cared if he was grabbing fabric or hair underneath. Through it all, he wouldn’t stop those tiny, weak whimpers, mostly hidden with how he presses his face against whatever part of Slade he’s hang off this time, but it’s still loud enough to bolster Slade’s irritation. “For the _last time_ let go!”

Currently, Robin is wrapped firmly around Slade’s outstretched arm, elbows and knees pressed tightly together to prevent Slade from shaking him off. No amount of shaking or threatening, or even slapping has worked. The last only made Robin cry louder, holding on with deceptively skinny limbs. Slade’s is at the end of his rope, only the knowledge Robin is the only perfect heir keeping him from ending the brats life. And it’s a near thing, too. He never takes contracts on women or children, and that applies to thirteen year old superheros. No matter how he regrets that choice at the moment. Another growl rumbles deep in his chest, his lip curling behind his mask. It’s probably a good thing it’s hidden from Robin, even on a good day, Slade isn’t fit for soothing squalling babies. The rage in his chest crests as Robin cries out again, his mask soaked clean through and tear streaks falling down… or up, depending on the angle, his face. Realization hits like a ton of bricks, helped by the sight of a plain cardboard box in the closet as Slade turns again, attempting to pry the brat off by force. Soothing. Soothers. Isn’t that's what pacifiers are called in England? His footsteps are loud as he steps, and it could rightfully be called stormed, over to the closet. There’s a few items he’s gathered from the Titan’s ridiculously large target in the bay, and one of them is just what he’s looking for. A plain, unmarked box. Signs of wear around the corners and where greedy hands have warped the cardboard around the opening show that this small box hold something important. But Slade’s not there to contemplate how often Robin opens this box, uses what’s inside, he’s here to get the blasted boy to shut the hell up and go to sleep. He carelessly punches in one of the sides to the box, feeling around for a moment and pulling out a pacifier, sized to fit a teenagers mouth. Just as angrily, barely restrained, he shoves the thing into the open mouth of Robin, glaring unhappily at how quickly the boy calms. Barely five seconds with the damn thing in his mouth and the tears have slowed, another minute and they stop entirely. When Slade pulls free the stuffed wolf from it’s prison, the boy’s mask goes wide, reaching for the toy so eagerly he actually doesn’t notice how he’s letting Slade go. Slade, who quickly has to put the boy in the bed, dimming the lights and disappearing out the door as swiftly as he can. For a world-renowned assassin, that's more swiftly than most can dream of.

They’ll just have to deal with this… roadblock, in the morning.

  
  


Raven was the first to notice. 

The past few days she’d avoided touching against Robin’s aura while she meditated. She was too angry, too hurt to even attempt it. Her own energy could lash out at him, uncontrolled in the face of his betrayal. It’s safer for him, she tries to convince herself, taking another slow deep breath as she levitates in the living room. Starfire left with the boys again, the need to escape the overpowering darkness in the tower. Raven doesn’t blame her, almost followed, but… 

There was something wrong. It was inexplicable, unknown, but there was something. The very air felt off, something vital in the tower missing. So, she took the opportunity to stay, to try and meditate, try and find what had been misplaced. The fact her mind tries to supply ‘stolen’ instead of ‘misplaced’ causes a barely noticeable ripple in her power. But it’s more of a ripple than she wants, lights flickering dangerously for a moment before she draws the power back, wraps it carefully back beneath her breastbone. 

It doesn’t take long, after that.

There’s always signs of their habitation in the tower, even when it’s Raven alone in the building. Their energies… are bright, loud. Obnoxious in the best ways. They leech into the walls, into metal and plaster, until the entire tower is bright. It fades, after a while of course, and it takes days to newly illuminate a part of the tower, but’s a fairly useful way to check up on her friends. Robin angry-determined-red energy has nearly faded from the entire tower. 

Not a surprise, as he’s been little more than a ghost for the past week, tentatively showing in the main areas for just to retreat back to his room when the other inhabitants of the tower reject his overtures. 

But… That’s not quite right either. With how much time he’s spending in his room, it should be bright, festering as he broods over Slade and his failure, both. It’s not though. There’s evidence of him, sure, there likely always would be. Robin is strong, and his energy shines brightly to reflect that, but his energy signature fades the quickest too. His room is already dulled, shadowed without the spark of Robin’s to light it. He’s nowhere else in the tower, either. Hasn’t been in… one and a half? Two days? 

Since the day he attempted to make breakfast. The realization makes her frown, remembering an offhand comment from Cyborg: to watch out, the systems went down for a few minutes in the middle of the night. It was likely just a glitch, it’d happened before, but it may not have been. If something, someone, snuck in and waited for Robin to all alone... He wouldn’t have even know there was a possibility of danger. 

The unease in her chest flares sharply, and when the lights go out this time, they stay that way. There’s another energy, in the garage, dim and barely noticeable, but not one she can ever forget. Slade… And not one of his robots either, it’s his, staying in one spot long enough to leave an imprint. That’s… not good. 

All the Titans keep their communicators on at all times, and Raven pulls her out, drawing her hood to shadow her face even further.

“Titans. Robin’s missing.” 

  
  


Robin doesn’t want to wake up. He knows, he knew as he was doing it, but it wasn’t until his frantic childish side had finally subsided that the full implication of what he did last night hits him. He had clung to Slade, had actually stuck to him like the worlds most annoying superglue. Not to even mention the pacifier he was still sucking contentedly at when he woke up this morning. The humiliation was complete, however, when he remembered launching himself at the man who had just been striking him. Shame burns his cheeks and ears ruby, clenching his fists and teeth. This, is enough. These… things! Have got to go! He’s tired of having the weakness, and appalled at what it made him do last night, eyes squeezing shut as he grabs the soft stuffed wolf from the floor by his bed. As he goes to tear it apart however, seams popping with less than a quarter of his strength, a low chuckle by the door stills him.

“Now, now Robin. I found that… very useful last night. Don’t you go around destroying things.” Patronizing, insulting, it’s Slade alright, leaning casually against the door frame, metal covered leg braced behind him. “Or, are you planning on having another tantrum? I should warn you, I don’t deal with tantrums nicely.”

Robin grits his teeth, glaring up at the man.

“And I don't throw tantrums! Like beating me six ways to Sunday was nice either!” He gets another chuckle at that, Slade easily gesturing to the small TV on the dresser across from robin, where obediently a clip is playing. A clip Robin doesn’t need to see to remember. “Turn that off!”

“But why? You were so very insistent you stay with me. I found it touching, truly.” The sarcasm dripping off his tone could scorch charcoal. Robin flinches, shaking his head.

“Slade! Whatever you want me to do, I won’t!” His hand slashes through the air, looking odd and pink without his normal green gloves, which he took off in the steam room, and never quite found them to replace again. In fact, the only thing he is wearing is his mask, and jumpsuit. No boots, no belt, no cape. Just the bare under things he normally wears under his tight fitting costume. It give Slade, fully armored, a distinct advantage Robin is all too aware of, gritting his teeth against the angry words threatening to spill forth.

“Won’t you? I rather think you will, unless you want a repeat of that clip on every news station in Jump City.” His eye twitches, like he’s smirking. “Or, I could push you back into that headspace, and throw you to others with… less savory intentions. I, merely want to train you. Who knows what the others want, with such a helpless little birdie that’s caused so much trouble, hmm?” 

“Slade!” Angrily, Robin start to shout, his voice high with emotion, but Slade shakes his head, clicks his tongue and walks further into the room. It’s enough to freeze the vigilante, mistrust in every line of his lithe body. Slade smirks behind his mask, letting every move become predatory, threatening. 

“Listen, boy. You can fight me on this, or you can leave it be. You’re going to be my apprentice, that much has already been decided. You choice is if you take care of… this,” The gesture somehow includes all of Robin at once.”By yourself, so it no longer affect your training. Or,” His smirk widens, towering over the boy, who’s at least glaring and looking defiantly back at him, nothing like the scared-rabbit that was out before. “Each and every time it interferes… I will be your caretaker.”

He’s serious. Slade is actually serious. Robin’s heart is about to beat out of his chest, mouth dry and eyes wide. Slade would-- Slade would what!?

“Throwing tantrums, disobeying, fighting me. Those are all… rather childish, wouldn’t you agree?” Slade smiles a little wider, tilting his head in faux curiosity. He’s got Robin by the tail after all, fall in line and obey, or be put through some as-yet unknown humiliation. Because, there was no way his last words were anything but threat. “Seems only fitting I find out what's wrong, seeing as you're my responsibility now, apprentice.”

“I-I-I…” Robin can’t find it in him to even speak,mind racing in a vain attempt to find a way free from the situation. But, Slade is a mastermind at this, he could see twenty steps ahead of Robin on Robin’s best day. Today is not Robin’s best day, in fact, it may very well be one of his worst. Not that it would have mattered anyway, Slade’s looks like a cat gutted on cream, content and secure in the knowledge there is no way for Robin to defy or out maneuver him. 

“Right, apprentice?” Slade practically purrs, smirking as Robin flinches slightly, pulling his chin down closer to his chest. Those thin shoulders curl too, like if he tries hard enough, the younger could block Slade out. Foolish child, he should have known there was no way a trick like that would work.

“...Yes,” 

“Yes, what? Surely a grown up boy such as yourself can think of a more fitting address for me. Hmm?”

He struggles, words failing to come to his lips, before Robin sighs, his teeth clenching hard enough Slade can hear them creaking.

“Yes… sir.” 

“I thought so.” Slade smiles, full and toothy behind his mask before twisting away. “Your breakfast is in five minutes. Be there. Or regret it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So, I'm going to need your beautiful minds to generate ideas. In the sequel Slade is going to have scenes with all the Titans and most of the Batfam, however, I do want to know what you'd like to see happen with them. Comment down below, and I'd like to thank each and every single one of you who have comment or given me kudos so far. I cannot tell you how much I love those.
> 
> Also, Raven is hard as hell to write.


	4. Identity and masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade has some new for the young hero. News said young hero is not happy to hear. In the aftermath of his tantrum, Slade shows the extent of his knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY.   
> I know i said every Saturday but... some real life stuff has come up and it's leaving me struggling pretty hard. I'm still working on this beautiful beast, but please be gentle.

Slade’s threat lasted another three days. Robin, with his quick temper and sharp tongue, grew quite familiar with the pain of a fist to his gut, or a backhand across his face. Every night, the days filled with ‘sparring’ where Slade would continuously mop the floor with him, Robin fell to bed, exhausted and sore. But he never felt the crumbling sensation of his older self seeping away, didn't feel his softer side rising up to find some, any comfort, and the now-ripped box had stayed high up in it’s shelf. Slade had even stopped touching him. The first day, Robin had been constantly led around by his neck or his shoulder, now Slade merely snapped his fingers, pointing at where he wanted the younger man. And, if he wasn't obeyed, that earned Robin more pain, more discomfort. 

At least Wintergreen had managed to convince Slade the way to the steam room should be left open for Robin. He's still learning the precise way, and the locks always hesitate for a minute before letting him through, but its… nice. Being able to go to the warm, scented room and soak at least some of his bruises away. It's like a shower, but semi clothed and he can sit in it for as long as he liked. That room was his favorite, now. Not the cold feeling, empty one with his name written outside the door. That… isn't a safe place. Slade had entered there before, to taunt, to force Robin up for breakfast or training. But the steam room? Slade never entered. 

It was a little safe haven in the hell of the lair. And right now, Robin needed it. 

They'd just finished another hard sparring session. Slade had been… infuriating, more so than usual, and Robin was tired of it. The room smells like cedar wood, and he takes a deep breath, calming himself as much as he can. He can't keep up with this. Every waking moment, he's in pain, and when he's asleep, he wakes violently from horrid nightmares. Normally, he’d suck it up, tell himself to man up but...

He sighs, leaning his head against the wooden paneling lining the walls. He's driven, has been since he put on the Robin mask, but nothing like what Slade is attempting to put him through. The man is combining physical and mental education, drilling Robin on different facts he's given at breakfast. Anything less than perfect recall, than perfect forms or attacks, and Slade takes ruthless advantage of the openings or weakness Robin displays. There's never any time to attack, barely time to defend, and each day has left a fresh wave of black and blue blooming across his skin like twisted roses. No cuts, not since the first day thankfully. Still, it's enough to keep him in the room long enough his cheeks flush pink and he's… over warm, to say the least. 

Wintergreen eventually comes for him, entering without even a knock. 

“Child, what are you still doing in here?” His voice sounds. Almost concerned? At least, that's how Robin hears it, shrugging slightly. He's just tired now, pain leached away like it wasn't there. At least, that's what he tells himself, trying to believe. Believe like he can't feel every bruise throbbing with his heart, pounding with his headache.

Tired is easier to deal with than pain, in any case.

“Slade doesn't come in here. Feels safe.” The honesty startles him, and it is brutally _honest,_ nodding along. Wintergreen frowns at the, but sighs and nods.

“I suppose it would. But, come on, time for supper.” Silently, he passes Robin a shirt. It's soft, one of the ones Slade provided, in his preferred style and brand, but without the usual padding Robin always got. The padding that adds at least a little bulk his lithe body currently lacks. 

There's still a look of quiet dismay on the aged face whenever he caught a look at Robin's back, but he hasn't mentioned it since the first day. And for that, Robin is grateful. It's not like he wanted to advertise what Two Face did, and what Joker did, later. There's just a brief moment of discomfort, of feeling eyes on his skin before he slides the shirt on over his sweat sticky back. The fabric kicks the feeling in the room from comfortably warm to downright gross. His face is uncomfortable, the mask catching and keeping the hot moisture against his skin, and he frowns, rubbing at the edge of it.

“How did sparring go today?” Wintergreen asks, kindly. Robin stays silent, stony. He crosses his arms across his chest, frowning at the floor. The old man knew, he saw Robin limping away from Slade, he saw how bruised Robin was. Wintergreen huffs, not mentioning it again or trying to break the silence as the two walk to the kitchen, something smelling amazing on the high end stove top. 

“Apprentice.” True to Wintergreen’s prediction, Slade refuses to call the young man Robin, instead sticking to ‘apprentice’ or ‘boy’. It makes Robin grit his teeth every time, but he doesn't protest, trying to avoid anything that might make Slade snap on him. It's been… making things bearable, barely. 

“Hello, sir.” The honorific has been forced everytime Robin talks to Slade. It's annoying to say the least, but Robin is determined to not be beaten any more tonight. Refusal to answer is seen as a tantrum, as is anything but the above answer. And tantrums consistently earn a backhanded slap that send Robin sprawling inelegantly on the floor.

He sits, quietly taking the plate Wintergreen passes to him. As always, it's heaping, this time with a warm casserole, green beans in a creamy base. There's a pork chop too, and Robin nearly smiles. This was a common food at the Greyson’s, due to how quickly it could be made and how cheaply it could be bought. It's simple and filling, and for the first time, Robin eats everything on his plate without any prompting from Slade. With the soft conversation between Slade and Wintergreen, it could almost pass as a place he had chosen to be, maybe a circus friend’s place. 

The content, nearly happy feeling, ends abruptly as Slade glances over. There's nothing warm in that eye, nothing soft, and he shivers, looking away. 

“Apprentice.” Slade drawls. “I saw something interesting on the news today…”

Robin’s stomach drops, nothing good could come from this. He looks up, biting his lip slightly. He's not going to like this. He knows he's not. 

He's right.

“The Titans officially came out today, that they're missing a little birdie. No clue who took it, of course, but a very impassioned plea to return him.” Slade’s voice is smiling, and he presses his fingers together in front of his face. “And… you know what? Bruce Wayne also spoke up today, about his missing ward, Richard Greyson. Now, that may just be a coincidence, especially since the two boy are reportedly very different. Dick, for one is a very meek, quiet boy. He liked going to school, talking to Wally West. Introverted, but sweet and caring, he's only 13. Robin… on the other hand… is 16, extroverted, like causing trouble and mischief As I'm sure you know.”

Yeah. Slade is definitely smiling behind that mask, voice silky smooth. Robin can feel his stomach twisting around the food he just ate, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. How… Bruce never even mentioned it when Dick ran off the first time! How… why would he have said Dick was missing? Especially since he said it on the same day the Titans admitted Robin was gone!

“However. I have a theory…” 

“No!” Robin stands suddenly, chair clattering as it falls over to the cold tiles. He can't let Slade do this! If he finds out Dick is Robin, then he'll know Bruce is Batman! Robin is proud his voice doesn’t shake, though it is higher and squeakier in a way he’ll never admit. “You have _nothing, Slade!”_

Slade stands as well, eye narrowing.

“Sit. Down.” He growls. “I wasn't finished.” He waits until the boy subsides into his chair, tense and obviously hiding something.

Another thing Slade is going to work on. The boy just has no poker face. Today was the day to begin changing that. Starting with the removal of that mask. 

Slade knew who Robin was, of course, knew years before the boy came into Jump City and tried to make it on his own. But the mask gives the boy some sense of protection, some measure of false belief that he can do as he pleases. That won't do; and while the Batman hadn't said anything, in either of his personas, the Titans _had_ come forward earlier, to ask for help in finding their leader. It was enough of the truth to work. “I have a theory… that the little bird and the ward are the same person. Tell me, Richard, am I wrong?” 

Robin shivers, shaking his head. Dick is no more. He buried Dick. There's only Robin left. Robin who is strong. Robin who doesn't give in. Robin who won't tolerate this. The reminder makes his head jerk upright, from where it was beginning to bow under Slade’s insistent questioning.

“Yes! You're wrong! How could I be Dick? He's only 13, and clearly, I'm not!” He waves a hand down his body, lithe and hard from intense training. The gig is up. Robin knows this, but he doesn’t dare stop, doesn't dare to let Slade know.

“Don't lie to me.” Slade breathes, taking two of his stupidly long steps to tower over the still sitting boy. A hand is planted solidly on either side of the boy’s empty plate, forcing Robin to hunch in on himself, unless he wanted to his head to rest against Slade’s chest as the older man looms. “I've known who you are for far longer than you've been in Jump City. And I've known Batman was Bruce Wayne since he started fighting crime.” 

Robin tenses further, attempting to look back at him, until Slade pushes his head forward. The hair is soft, even through his leather glove and Slade doesn't’ hesitate to grab a fistful, another lesson the boy will learn in time: having any part of his body uncovered is giving the enemy an advantage. It’s unfortunate he hasn’t learned this before, face screwed up in pain at the harsh grip.

“That's not true!” Hotly, the boy protests loudly, shaking his head, still in Slade’s fist, apparently uncaring at how it pulls his hair. It’s a grip Slade promptly tightens, shaking him once.

“DON'T _LIE_ TO ME!” Each word is underlined with another bone jarring shake. “I _know_ who you are, boy!” 

The shout scares Robin, right behind his head with terrible fury. He'll admit he flinches, ducking down to try and avoid the harsh hand.

It doesn't help, and it doesn't help the pit in his stomach. The only thing it does, however, is infuriate Slade, pulling him up and out of his chair with ease. He holds Robin up, by the back of his uniform like some lost kitten. A kitten that's about to get an through butt kicking. 

“You know nothing!” Robin has to insist, shaking his head. “I'm not Dick! I don't know Bruce Wayne! Stop it!” 

It's similar to what he said, as Dick, when Two-Face had a hold of him. Two Face, who had been on a nasty streak, punishing the wealthy for their innattition to the worsening state in Gotham. He had gone to the wealthy’s homes, kidnapped their children and had done... horrible things. It was luck Robin had been in street clothes, but the man still had a rough idea who he might be. Robin and four other boys had been quarantined , taken away from the others, and… tortured. All of them. Robin could still hear the other’s cries, when he closes his eyes. The memory makes him clench his teeth against the terror even now, glaring up at the inhuman mask of his greatest rival.

The mask that hold a narrowed eye, the lack of any other expression magnifying that single blue-grey orb. An eye full of righteous fury, to match the hand that's reaching towards his face. No, not his face, Robin is quick to find out, his _mask_. He flinches again, turning his head to try and avoid the metal armored hand. It doesn't help, and soon enough, the villain has the edge of the black mask in his fingers, pulling slightly. It's stuck fast and Robin yells incoherently; kicking out with wild abandon, arms beating at any part of Slade he can reach. His arms, chest, mask, anything. 

If he doesn’t stop squirming, Slade’s going to lose his grip. That won't do.

“Enough with the yelling, boy!” Slade demands, pushing Robin against the wall and keeping him place with one forearm across his chest. It keeps him still, mostly, but it also restricts the young man's breathing. Good. The boy can't struggle too much now, not without risking passing out from lack of air. He still tries, though, Slade has to give him that, squirming and cursing. An impressive vocabulary, truly. Slade mentally marks down each swear or insult, determined to make the boy pay, after. 

Robin swears again. It's more than physical pain, though it hurts, his mask has pretty much fused to his skin; but the emotional damage threatening from the masks removal. It's, his protection. It's all he knows. He can't take it off!

He doesn't have a choice. 

Light filters through his eyelids, clenched shut hard to try and block Slade out. It's stupid, how much a small piece of fabric can feel so heavy, but underneath, his skin is sensitive. It hurts, even the warmed air of the lair. 

Slade doesn't care, tossing the mask onto the table with the barest whisper of sound. It's gone. It's… really gone. Robin whimpers, turning his head. He can't face Slade, not without his mask. His mask… filters some things, let's him deal with it at his own pace. Without it…

“Slade! Please!” He's released, falling to his knees without the helpful-painful pressure of Slade’s arm. It doesn't matter, as a handful of his hair is quickly yanked back, exposing his face to the much, much taller man. 

Something inside Robin is shattering, breaking into a thousand pieces of razor sharp shards. This isn't the crumbling of his older self, broken but rebuildable without an overly large strain. It's. Irreparable, a piece of his identity carelessly ripped free, thrown and broken. His begging doesn't stop Slade, however, he know this. Nothing. Absolutely nothing and no one can stop Slade.

Certainly not a hero with _Daddy Issues_

“Open your eyes, Richard.” Slade orders, pulling a little harder, so Robin’s neck is tensed and exposed, forced into an unnatural arch. “Open them!” 

The boy whimpers, but it looks like some of his fire is banked, because he slowly obeys, blinking rapidly to clear those eyes of tears.

Those eyes…

  


Just like--

  


Those eyes…Like an anime. One lavished with color and expression. Crystal and clear, their blue endless, and Slade feels his lungs clench. Of all the things he was expecting… this was not one of them. Even now, stripped of his most important defense, Richard is glaring, past the tears glistening in the corners. Hatred, and anger, and no small amount of fear stare back at him, and, in the tiny black centers, nearly overwhelmed by the blue, Slade sees himself. Or, rather, himself as Robin sees him. An inhuman thing, larger than life and leaning down threateningly. Such fear… Slade refuses to acknowledge how his breath catches, forcing his exhale low and slow, barely avoiding the urge to gasp. He can’t keep looking into those eyes though, releasing the boy and turning sharply on his heel, ignoring it as heart contracts in his chest painfully. He waves a hand to the floor behind him. 

“Workroom, Richard. Let's go.”


	5. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade deals with Robin's little tantrum over the removal of his mask, and the morning holds a horrific surprise for the young hero.

Richard tries hard that night. There's no doubting it, he even lets most of his emotional tirade go, focusing on silence and attacking. Slade easily overcomes the boy, of course, but anyone else would have had at least a struggle on their hands. Anyone who hadn't been trained, or made, by the same people he had been, of course. 

“So. How did a thirteen year old get so strong?” Conversationally, the man asks, smoothly dodging another fist. Richard was skilled, he could admit that. 

“Not… thirteen!” But that panting. Was the young man out of shape? But he wasn't sweating that badly yet…

Ah. Must be trying to hold together his emotions. Slade could appreciate that, nodding his approval to himself, even as he swung a fist in return. It connected, of course, and Richard is sent flying, fetching up hard against one of the numerous metal poles surrounding the room. 

“Oh? How old are you, then? Surely not sixteen, as you've claimed.” Richard pants a little, standing uneasily in front of the pole that just knocked the wind from him. 

“N-none of your beeswax!” He snarls, eyes tightened to barely more than enraged slits. 

“Attitude, Richard.” Slade reprimands, holding his hands down at his sides, open as he advances. “Wouldn't want you to throw a tantrum, after all.” 

Richard bares his teeth, spiky hair flipping as he shakes his head. The reminder of Slade’s threat isn’t appreciated, clearly.

“Shove off, Slade!” It's a challenge, one that's quickly backed up with fists. He's uncontrolled, this time, panting with ill concealed fear. Slade dodges the hits to his chest and mask smoothly, allowing the boy to work out _some_ of his aggression before he teaches Richard some manners. When he blocks a furious left hook however --catching the unpadded wrist in his hand-- it’s with true surprise that he jerks when Richard flips; using the hold Slade had on him to kick violently up and out at the mask. Bare feet, without even the slim protection of tennis shoes, it surely hurts the boy more than Slade, who barely felt any impact, but it makes Richard grin. A feral, half mad grin, but a grin nonetheless and Slade actually needs to take a step back under the increased fury. 

“Tsk, tsk, Richard.” The asshole actually has the gall to smirk, turning like Robin isn't a threat, isn't something he needs to pay attention to. It should be enough of a warning that something's wrong, but Robin doesn't care, leaping at Slade’s unprotected back. “I thought we talked about this.”

Seconds before he hits the man, Slade turns. He's fluid, graceful, and deadly. A knee slams into Robin’s stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a loud gasp. There's no time to recover either, as Slade grabs his throat, lifting him up, up, up. Until Robin’s legs dangle, kicking vainly in the air. Fingers curls into Slade’s wrist armor, but he can't rid himself of the terrible grip. 

“Respect me. And all will go well. Don't and…” Slade tosses Richard across the room, walking slowly, powerfully. No matter how fast the young hero tried to stand, Slade was right there to beat him back down, until finally, Richard lay still. Not unconscious, not yet, but leaning towards that. And quickly. Mercy was an unfamiliar concept to Slade, in practice if not in theory, so he doesn't allow the young boy to find refuge in the darkness, picking him up with one hand. Without the mask, even if both eyes are black and blue, Richard’s eyes flutter open. Every flicker of emotion is visible, fear, mistrust, pain. There's nothing in them suggesting the fire the boy carries. It's banked, hidden, lost for the moment. 

Instead, there's merely a lost little boy looking at him. Pain and confusion growing more prominent as Slade doesn't strike, as the two stare each other down. Both barely breathe, holding the fragile moment and stretching in into infinity. 

It can't last, however.

“J-just hit me!” To no surprise at all, Richard breaks the silence, voice weak and feathery from the lack of air, nearly inaudible. “If you're gonna do it, do it!” 

“Don't presume to command me, boy!” But, still, Slade lowers him, not gently per se, but the lack of violence almost makes it so. His own motives are hidden even to himself, frowning as he stares at the odd young man.

On his own two feet, Robin shudders, sways. He's braced for another blow, muscles taunt as drawn bowstrings, but when it doesn’t come, he's more confused than relieved. Slade doesn't stop. Ever. If he is still standing, then there a reason, and likely a painful one. Especially after how he had gone completely and utterly off the rails. Yelling at the man?

What was he, suicidal? 

Another long, silent moment passes. Slade watches the emotions play out over the boys unmasked face. A certain satisfaction curls his lips up, too mocking to be called a smile, as the boy anxiously waits. Good. Fear is a powerful motivator. In combination with pain; which Richard is also becoming familiar with, it can bow even the fiercest spirit into something malleable, pliable to his wishes. All he has to do is keep Richard guessing, keep him off balance, never let him get a solid footing. If that happens, if he gets lazy and sloppy, Richard will fight all the harder. Hard enough to break free, perhaps. Not that it’d matter. Slade was determined to get his way in this, and as in all things: what he wants, he'll get. 

Nothing happens.Robin mouthed off to his greatest rival and nothing happens. This can't be good. It just can't be. He shifts his weight, just enough to allow some of his muscles to relax; unable to keep the taunt any longer. Of course, that's when Slade strikes. One effortless leg movement, and Robin crashes to the ground, legs firmly swept out from under him.

That's… oddly comforting. In the worst way, Slade being consistent is far better than the alternative. Even if it does mean Robin's going to be in pain all night.

He doesn't try to rise, temporarily too exhausted to fight. Even with Bruce, by no means a lenient teacher, he never hurt this badly. Or felt this broken. It's like someone took a hammer, or a crow bar, to his ribs. Every breath he takes hurts, and physically its just as bad, pain radiating from each bruise. In spite of that, or maybe because of that, the cool metal under his cheek is soothing. It cradles his broken body, slipping weights born of adrenaline crash and fear onto his eyelids. Things can't hurt, if he's asleep, right? 

Robin doesn't really have a choice. His consciousness is already slipping away, gaze unfocused as it slides up, up the long armored body. It's only once his eyes land on Slade’s single eye that he focuses, blinking rapidly to try and stay conscious. 

It doesn't work.

Of course the boy would fall asleep. Slade sighs. Those eyes… they're just too much. Everything is laid plainly out in them, fear hope… Joy. Not that he's seen the last one for himself, but he could imagine the blue, sparkling and crinkled around the edges with a laugh or a smile. His hand, absently, rubs at his chest. The boy… he's the perfect Apprentice, once these roadblocks are worked out. Once he's as helpless against the need to follow Slades commands as he is the need to breathe. 

But. First, it's time to put the worn out little bird back to his nest. 

There's not so much as a twitch when Slade moves closer. Those eyes don't flutter when the body is picked up. There's not a sign the boy's aware of his position, until Slade already has one arm under Richard’s legs, the other curling around to pull the skinny chest against his broad, firm one. It's then when a quiet, relieved sigh sneaks past the boys lips and he relaxes deeper into sleep, head turning to rest more firmly against Slade shoulder. Further into sleep… in his enemies arms. 

This is… trust. And Slade’s pretty sure it didn't come from the boy himself. It may, however, come from the younger side of him… something to think about. He’d be willing to bet a significant portion of his fortune that the boy in Slade’s arms is in his younger mindset. He’d been keeping out of it all week too, despite his obvious anger displayed every time they talked or sparred.

Frankly, Slade is more surprised that it took this long to make the younger man slip, rather than the fact that Richard slipped at all. The training hasn’t been easy, physically and mentally demanding. Still… it did raise some unique problems. And, if manipulated properly, unique rewards. It was unexpected, how trusting the boy was. How the little hero had lunged towards Slade, in the moment of pain and terror. Despite his reluctance to admit such an oversite, that’s exactly what it was. Slade had not expected that Richard, or his little side, would ever seek comfort from him. He had, mistakenly, believed Robin’s fear would keep him safely away from the headspace, at least until he was safely in his room again. Or, and this was vastly preferable, Richard would grow out of his need before Slade ever took him.

His one working eye narrows, glaring down at the peacefully sleeping child in his arms. No matter his original plan, it seemed that Fate was placing an interesting dilemma in his path. He could continue as he had been and gain a powerful appertinace through intimidation and the power he wields over Richard. Things he knows from experience slowly lose power over time, and can only hope the boy grows to care for him in the indeterminable time between the two. Or. He could use the boy’s… predisposition and make the make the younger side care for and trust him, knowing there’s already some carry over between the identities. It seems nearly foolish to allow the opportunity to slip by, especially since it’s clear the younger already trusts Slade to protect him. 

Still. 

Children are difficult. As a permanent state of being. There’s no real reasoning with them, no following or predicting their thought processes, they’re loud, sensitive, needy. Richard is already all of those things, there's no sense enticing him to go further overboard. It's incredibly tempting to ignore this. Slade was never meant to be a father, that much has been shown quite clearly. His attempts only bring death, bring destruction, bring pain. But, on the other hand, he wouldn't be attempting to be the boys father, would he?

He'd merely… soften his approach with the smaller side. Snide remarks would get, a swat, instead of a fist or armored boot to the gut. Disobedience, the same. If it would sway Richard, sway Robin, to his side, Slade was nearly willing. The boy was his. It would be lot easier to sway him instead of force him, but either way, Richard did not have a say anymore. 

Realizing just how long he'd been holding the sleeping child, Slade shakes his head. His steps are slow and measured as he climbs the stairs, present only physically. Mentally, his mind is whirling over plans, new and old, adjusting and re-adjusting. And, well, emotionally. He hasn't been present there in a long, long time. 

Thankfully, Richard is still fully asleep when Slade pours him into the rich king mattress. The boy hasn't mentioned it, likely never would, but the room and its contents are so much better than what Robin had. On par with the Bat's, probably. Slade hasn't quite cared enough to investigate Batman’s thread count on his sheets. Everything in here, though, spoke of indulgence. Elegant, dark wood furniture made understated statements where they stood, the bed was a full four poster, the rug was soft and protected delicate feet from the chill of the bamboo flooring. Everything in the closet and the restroom attached is a fit for Richard, in a variety of styles and colors, though black and orange showed up more than the rest. It's fit, for a teenager, with additional comforts and treats to be added when Richard finally ceased with this nonsense and got serious. There was _so much_ Slade had to offer. All his power, all his knowledge. But the stupid child, wouldn't listen. Not in the least. It was enough to make one be driven to the very edge of madness. 

With another glance at the boy, lingering over where bruises cover nearly as much at the mask did, Slade turns. Those eyes, after all, didn't mean anything to him. 

  
  


Robin surfaces slowly. Exhaustion and pain, already his current ‘normal’, seem worse. What…? A half hearted wiggle, to see if it's truly as bad as it feels or if his mind is playing tricks on him, confirms that, yes: moving was a bad idea. Pain lances up each of his limbs, down into individual fingers and toes. He hurts in muscles he didn't even know could hurt! If not from the intense, too intense, training, then from being tossed around like a rag doll. Slade hadn't even avoided his face, like he normally did. 

A pained groan leaves his lips, miserable in the large empty silence of his room. He’s given up protesting that it’s not his room, at least for now. It’s where he’s sleeping, it's where he can briefly retreat from Slade, at least for a few hours every day. Carefully, too aware that every movement will cause pain even if he is careful, the young hero attempts to stand. The plush carpet feels something like heaven, soft against his much abused body, even if the whole ‘falling’ part steals his breath for nothing short of eternity. He doesn’t try again, at least not until he can quickly blink away the tears that gather on the edges of his eyes. But that hurt, truly. And, without his mask, it’s so much easier to allow his eyes to fill with the burning liquid, and it takes much longer for them to subside. Without his mask, without the steadying burden he willingly lays on his shoulders, Robin is… Robin is weak. Anger rises thick and hot in his chest, breathe catching hard somewhere in his throat as he swears softly, pressing his forehead against the carpet cushioning him from the dark hardwood that’s placed throughout the lair. 

“Come on!” Beyond the dark, ugly feelings choking him, Robin kneels, gripping white knuckled at the top of the heavy dresser holding the clothing Slade has given him. Agonizingly slowly, he straightens one knee, then the other, glaring at the plain, warm brown wall that’s behind the dresser. It’s more than physical pain pressing his feet to the ground, making his knees weak and rubbery, it’s the complete and utter mental desolation Slade enacted yesterday. Taunting him like that, using the name he hasn’t claimed since he ran away from Bruce. Dangling his knowledge and power over Robin like a particularly vicious cat toying with a particularly obtuse mouse. It had been embarrassing, to be played with like that, to have his emotions pulled and manipulated. Nothing more than a puppet on Slade’s strings. It makes him sick, the roiling in his stomach making a clear warning he doesn’t intend to ignore. He’s embarrassed enough; Slade doesn’t need to see him vomiting everything he’s ever eaten as well as the other ammunition the dual toned masked man has on him. The sauna would be nice… Yeah. It’d be nice…

Through sheer strength of will, Robin doesn’t fall as he lets go of his support, taking the few steps to the door cautiously. He doesn’t fall, so there's that.

The hall, with it’s locked doors and palm scanners, is completely silent. Not that it’s something new, every sound here is muted, adsorbed and dispersed by the heavy metal doors and the rubber seals. As much as he hates Slade, Robin admits he’s smart. Metal doors would hold up much better than plain wooden, and the rubber would prevent any gas or object passing through, attempting to manually unlock them. Unfortunately for him, and his nebulous escape plans, getting out of the place is even harder than getting in.

Walking is coming a little easier now, now that he’s got a plan. The plan is only to get to the warm smelling room, of course, but it’s still more than he had before and there’s a scant amount of comfort he takes from it. Plans, he knows. He can use plans, can set aside the mess of feelings and questions, to focus on the here and now. It’s how he was able to attack when he was Red X, separating himself from his friends in order to reach his goal. 

A goal that was never achieved, true. But it still had been his goal. 

When he places his palm, bare and that will never not be weird after years of green, against the required scanner, however, the thing blinks a sharp, angry red. Confusion furrows the boy’s brow, lifting his hand and applying it again to the cool glass surface. Again, the red light illuminates boldly through his skin. 

“What…?” Softly, trying his already frayed patience, Robin goes to lay his hand down again, only to be startled by a smooth voice.

“Tsk, Tsk, Richard. If something doesn’t work the first two times, it's clearly not going to.” Amusement colors every inch of Slade’s voice, and Robin can see in smirk in the curve of the man’s eye. It’s amazing how he focuses on the tiny feature, every twitch or crease in it, when every other part of the man is hidden in thick fabric or armor. “Particularly if it’s my work.”

He’s entirely too self satisfied at that, and Robin bites back his thoughts quickly, looking away from the man. He’s sore enough at the moment, and Slade’s perpetually on a hair trigger. Any backtalk can and will end up with himself nursing more bruises, more anger, more fear. It’s starting to get unbearable. The outburst yesterday, he’s man enough to admit he was so far out of line it’s not funny, wasn’t caused strictly by Slade’s taunts. Though they were what pushed him over the edge, he was already wandering far too close to that reckless ledge. Despite Batman’s-- and his various villains-- attempts, and his own act, Robin has always been somewhat of an empathetic, kind soul. Stress, especially when he has no time to truly relax, will quickly drive him crazy. The kind of crazy that gets people killed. The stupid kind of crazy, where he no longer cares for his safety or the consequences in his mad attempts to stop or solve whatever is stressing him out. 

It was the exact brand of crazy that made him don Red X’s persona and create things to deliberately disable his friends. 

Thankfully, Slade doesn’t taunt him further, turning on his heel sharply and gesturing at a camera to allow their passage through the maze of halls that leads directly to the kitchen. They’re silent, Slade relaxed as he ever gets, a lazy kind of awareness that oozes power sludge-like with every step, thick and casually menacing; and Robin with a sort of skittish tension that has him searching Slade’s back for any hint movement, any clue the man is about to turn and hurt him. If it makes him paranoid, that’s fair. He’s more than earned the title, and Slade’s more than earned the mistrust currently glaring holes into the back of his neck. 

It’s almost cute. How unsure the boy is. How his eyes track Slade’s every movement with frantic, half feral intensity. Behind his mask, Slade allows a smile. Today, is going to be… revealing. Maybe fun, maybe satisfying. He hasn’t felt the first in so long he’s not entirely sure he’d recognize it if it showed, but the second… it’s a near guarantee. There’s no small amount of amusement in his voice as he talks to WIntergreen, Richard slowly picking at his meal. Normally, that’d be enough for Slade to snap at the boy, but not today. Today, he has larger things on his mind, things Richard will be learning of, and likely despising, all too soon. 

He gives another little chuckle at that, though Wintergreen hasn’t said anything particularly funny, and glances over. Richard is looking distinctly green around the gills, so Slade doesn’t bother reprimanding him over the half full plate of food in front of him, instead standing and gesturing down to the training and workroom.

“Come on, Richard. We’re doing something… differently today.” The look on the young man's face is more far priceless than any bank could possibly hold. Slade is aware his answering smile is more bloodthirsty than not, that it’s not exactly humor he’s projecting, that Richard looks moments away from trying to make a run for it. He just doesn’t care enough to change it. 

Something different? What? Robin swallows nervously, knowing his face is too-honest without his mask, and knowing that Slade is laughing at him, for all he doesn’t make a sound.

It doesn’t take long to figure out why, unfortunately. Stopping dead in the threshold, Robin shakes his head, taking a step back. That, of course, does absolutely nothing. Slade merely grabs the back of his neck, forcing him through the door and closer to that… thing. Robin refuses to name it. He refuses to acknowledge just what Slade is doing, horror in every line of his body as he tenses, already trying to turn away from Slade. 

“No! Slade!? What the crap?!” He’s shaken, a little, mostly for the rude language, because Slade doesn’t say anything else, just drags him bodily over to- to- to the--

He can’t. He can’t make himself say it. 

“I told you, Richard. If you wanted to throw fits, I would not indulge you. Act like a child, and I will be your caretaker.” There’s no hiding the smug self assurance coming from the man, or how his smirk grows, when Robin balls his fists at the nerve of the man. He- He actually bought a--! “However, if you want to throw another little fit, go ahead. You’ll merely have to adjust to a new schedule, one that includes this. Every. Day.” 

Even with eyes narrowed to thin, enraged slits, Robin can still see the thing. It’s impossible not to. For one thing, it's the only thing present in the large room, besides the customary gears and computers lining the walls and Slade’s _throne_ mere feet away from the monstrosity. For another, it’s painted wood, where everything else in the room, in nearly the entire haunt is metal or metal adjacent. The third, and most wounding, is that it’s boldly painted in Robin’s colors. Red, green, yellow. It looks like it’s for a preschooler, one just learning the colors for the stoplights. It’s huge, as well, enough room for him to stand, to sit, to pace. Maybe even train, a little. 

It doesn’t stop the fact that it’s a cage, for toddler.

Slade bought him a freaking playpen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you should feel lucky, I was going to end the chapter right after Slade puts Robin to bed... But the playpen. Oh the playpen. Poor Robs is so angry.


	6. Upset tummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slades baby bird tests some boundires and pays the price. But Slade doesn't exactly get off Scot free...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's fairly obvious, but based on who's POV it is, names change.  
> Robin always calls himself Robin, which Wintergreen and Slade call him Richard, child, or boy.  
> Wintergreen is Will to himself and Slade, and Wintergreen to Robin.  
> Slade is Slade. Period.

Slade bought him a freaking playpen.

Finally being able to think the word doesn’t help Robin’s complete and utter distaste for it, glaring at the painted wood like he could set fire to it through his angry look alone. From behind him, hand still laid deceptively lightly against his neck, Slade laughs a little. The low, amused chuckles that seem to come so freely from the man’s chest. Robin has never hated a sound so much in his entire life. Gunfire, circus sounds, the Joker’s laugh, the whispering slash of a lash before it makes contact, the muffled cries of those it hits… All those things, he’d rather hear in this moment, than the freaking chuckle Slade is still giving. 

“Go on, Richard. Go play. Those books hold your lessons for today, and you will be quizzed.” There is a hard shove between his shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward, and that’s just enough for Slade to shut the door to the contraption behind him. Only chest height, the criss crossing bars should have posed no problem to the hero. But, in anger forgetting just who put the bars in place, when he attempts to boost himself over them, an electric shock jolts through his entire body, leaving his fingers buzzing with painful energy. Hissing as he falls to the floor, padded by a multitude of soft pillows and blankets, all in the red/green/yellow of his uniform, Robin can’t decide which humiliation is worse: Slade watching him with the cursed amused air, or that it actually takes him a moment to catch his breath again.

“Might not want to try that, Richard.” An armored hand points up at the ceiling, to multiple small black boxes stubbornly sticking to the metal surfaces. “Those create an electric fence, all around the playpen. Of course, it’s reacting with the sensors I’ve put in your suit, but so long as you stay put and behave, you’ll be fine.” He gives another long lingering look that has Robin rapidly backing up, but Slade just, tuns; going over to his throne and focusing on some of the smaller screens surrounding the metal throne. 

It gives him time to try and get out, or plan what he’s going to do when he’s let out.

Hours later, or minutes, he doesn’t really remember at this point, Robin flinches, Slade’s boot stopping right outside the obnoxiously colored pen. He's laying limply, exhausted at the bottom of the pen. As much as the pillows and blankets offended him at first, Robin is nearly grateful for them. He's had enough of laying bruised on hard metal.

“Did you even open on of those books, Richard?” Slade already knows the answer, clearly. Richard is laying limply on the colorful blankets, simplified uniform singed around the edges and hair more of a mess than it usually was. Exhausted, dull eyes flicker towards his mask, but beyond that, the teen makes no move to greet or acknowledge Slade. Even seeing those eyes multiple times last night, and again this morning, Slade can’t quite keep the stab of… something… in his chest. He’s quick enough to push it away, however, it could easily be acid reflux, could be a pulled muscle his body simply hasn’t fixed yet.

It certainly has nothing to do with the boy finally pushing himself up to a kneel, one leg folded under his weight while the other bends, raven black hair falling limply over his knee.

“Have you?”

How can he be so casual? Robin feels like groaning, drained and hurt from endlessly throwing himself at the freedom he saw on the other side of the pen. His stomach, already sensitive from his upset, drops alarmingly as the tall man crouches, squatting just outside the painted bars. From this angle, Slade is certifiably a giant, stretching up far past what should be acceptable.

“Answers, Richard.” The tone is lanced with dark warning Robin knows better than to disobey, pressing his forehead deeper into his knee and taking a deep breath before he can answer.

“No, Sir.” It’s quiet, near silent, but it’s the required answer. Slade hums, looking carefully at the bowed back in front of him. There’s something there, maybe, the hint of defeat in his tone, how he’s carefully not looking up, staring at the floor, how meekly he answered the question. Richard is breathing, slowly and deeply, like he’s trying to restrain himself. But restrain what? 

“Richard? Are you little right now?” That’d be inconvenient. Richard had more than earned himself a punishment for ignoring Slade’s explicit orders to read his lessons, but Slade also isn’t so much a monster he would terrorize someone in such a vulnerable state, not to mention needing the smaller mindset firmly on his side, to help begin to sway Richard completely to Slade’s cause.

But he also would not be able to allow such blatant disobedience. It seems to be a moot point, however, because Richard raises his had a moment later, blue eyes flashing in anger. Not little then, but pissed off. Very much so. Slade raises an eyebrow, straightening to standing above the young man once again.

“Stand.” Robin’s stomach drops, hard. No… no. Please. He doesn’t have a good feeling about what’s going to happen, going as slowly as he dares. Kneeling to standing takes far more of his energy than it should, and there’s not quite enough to make him raise his head, breathing harshly as he waits. He doesn’t need to wait long, not sure if that’s a particularly reassuring thought. “Was there a particular reason you ignored my orders…?” 

Robin flinches, trying to ignore the man, but he can’t, especially when a metal tipped glove pushes his jaw up, makes him look Slade in the eye. The eye holding nothing but contempt and aggression. Knowing that closing his own will only earn a strike, Robin keeps them open, already regretting his disobedience. The thought makes him cringe.

Slade’s a villian. Robin is _supposed_ to disobey him! That doesn’t seem to matter to his body, however, barely avoiding the urge to look away or hunch in on himself. Slade has enough of his vulnerabilities. He can't offer any more.

“I was trying to escape the cage.” At least he got it out in one steady sentence. Emotionlessly, coldly. But he said it. Part of him wants to cringe away, wants to take back the words.

“I’d never put a child in a cage, Richard. You were trying to escape your playpen, weren’t you?” Mortification is a good look on the boy. Slade has to restrain his laugh, but he can’t quite help the taunting tone his voice takes. Especially when those cheeks are as red as the suit Richard wears, and his gape is entirely too fish-like. “Weren’t you?” 

Mocking. That’s the first thing Robin can depict from the man’s voice, over the rushing in his own ears. A chiding kind of lilt next, as his cheeks flame. And… Scolding? Is Slade trying to scold him? If he is, it’s working far too well, stomach twisting like it always did when Batman felt the need to lecture. It was… is… awful. Like there’s already no chance for forgiveness, to do better.

Unhappily, he shifts his feet. Just a little motion, finally letting his gaze fall from Slade’s, focusing it just over his shoulder. It’s hard, to call up the unyielding hero Robin knows he is, when Slade is acting so… odd. That’s all he can call it. Odd. 

“I’m not a child, Slade.” That can’t be him. He certainly doesn’t have a death wish. And to talk to _Slade_ in that _tone?_ Is asking for a slow, painful death. 

“Oh?” The mercenary's tone is silky, more wryly amused than furious and maybe there’s hope, maybe--

Hope sucks.

Robin groans, closing his eyes tightly as he’s bodily thrown across the room, knowing well enough to let his body be limp, to let it absorb the worst of the damage before he attempts to stand. He’d been good at that before, but he’s an expert now, pushing himself up slowly. He only needs to spend another moment to ensure his breakfast isn’t going to make a reappearance, when Slade takes a step closer. 

“What was that now, apprentice?” Robin must be suicidal. That’s the only reason he’s repeating his words, glaring up at Slade. This is such, such a bad idea.

Not as bad an idea as full force punching him in the stomach, though. Slade can take all the credit for that one. Bile rushes upward, and there’s not enough time to do more than jerk his head frantically away because Slade is grabbing for his face and if he doesn’t-- if he doesn’t move away pretty sharpish Slade is going to be--

Slade is absolutely covered in a teenager’s vomit. 

Shock holds him still for a moment, finally connecting the greenish hue Richard woke up with, how he was breathing oddly earlier and the horror in his eyes as Slade advanced. Not that it helps, at the minute, with suit dripping with the mess. 

“You’re sick.” Flatly, Slade intones, the evidence obvious even without a pointed glance down the length of his body. Richard tries to make himself smaller than he was already, gaze vaguely glazed. And the boy is shaking his head, face flaming.

“I'm… I just.” He sighs, “I… have a sensitive stomach.” It takes ages, but Robin finally admits it. It's all too true, unfortunately. Even a vague emotional upset will cause nausea for him. And yesterday was far past ‘vague emotional upset’ it was an explosion, a bomb of terror and disbelief. It's embarrassing, a hero who has such a weak stomach, but it's only with his emotions, truly. A sensitive stomach? Slade can't believe he heard that right, narrowing his eye down at the boy. 

For a moment, his vision wavers, a ghostly image over Richard. Turning midnight hair blonde, softening his face with youth-- more so than it already was-- and instead of fear, pleading trust fills big blue eyes. Joey… he'd always had a sensitive stomach too, though his was never hidden. He had always come to Slade, after Slade and Adeline fought. With big, doe eyes wet with combined upset and reaction to puking. He was such a gentle soul... The image is gone after his next blink, leaving only Richard, but the pain of it lingers and catches in his throat. 

It's easy, to turn the pain to anger. Anger is something he knows, something he elicits and controls and can manipulate as easily as he can breathe. Far easier than choking on the memory of another boy, another life. 

“Any other surprises?” The words are slow, a dangerous drawl. Richard will pay for this, the unwanted memory and the ruined outfit both; maybe not in the way he's clearly expecting-- half shrinking away from where Slade’s hands are gripping his shoulders-- a strong dose of humiliation is just as well as physical discipline. And, if it's echoes how he tended Joey… it's merely a coincidence. 

“No, sir.” Good. Not believable. But good. There's a slight jerk as Slade picks Richard up, wordless protest, but Slade isn't about to let that bother him. Richards slight weight is easily balanced on his hip, held carefully so the bare minimum of skin would touch Slade’s Kevlar suit. It's a tense, silent walk through the workroom, living room, and up the stairs to the kitchen. Only there does Slade drops the boy, pointing towards one of the doors to the side. 

“There's a shower in there. Go.” For a second, it almost looks like Richard's about to argue, face warily defiant, but he obeys. Good… good. If he hadn't chosen to obey. Well, Wintergreen hates fighting in the main areas of the house, but Wintergreen would have had to deal with it. Blatant disobedience will only bring pain. Richard should know this by now. 

The brief time the shower is on gives Slade leeway to change, keeping his mask but stripping the Kevlar in favor of a crisp white button down and black dress pants. It's a more comfortable kind of armor, and it also leaves most of his long white ponytail free down his back. He's back in the kitchen, change of clothes deposited in the bathroom, before the shower quite shuts off. Richard, for all he's Batman’s good little soldier, clearly has never taken a military quick shower in his life. In the sauna or in there, he always lingers. 

Probably fair, Slade thinks, ducking down to get a small saucepan from the cupboard next to the stove. He's been pushed hard, and the hot steam could bring some form of comfort… in the pan, Slade deftly mixes some cream, honey and cinnamon, a little water and a tea bag hanging over the edge. Joey… Joey had loved this. They found the recipe when he was a baby, with colic, and left the tea out. But, as he grew, Joey actually enjoyed the tea; Adeline used to tease them, trying tea and pretending to choke on it, eyes sparkling and playful.

Happier times… 

It takes a moment of searching, clouded in the past; but far forgotten in the back, but Slade does find a water bottle. It was originally meant for water, a sports bottle when Wintergreen would join Slade for a work out, but the spout is close enough to a baby bottle that Slade takes it without hesitation. The milky tea is just about done when Richard finally turns off the shower, silence falling. Just in time. Slade smiles, mischief lifting the corners of his lips, pouring the tea into the bottle and watching the steam fondly curl into the air. It's tempting to test the bottle, just against the inside of his wrist, but Richard isn't actually a baby, surely he doesn't need Slade to check that he won't burn his mouth.

He doesn't.

The man sighs, heavily through his nose, and undoes one of buttons on his cuff, drawing back the pure white fabric and exposing pale white skin under the protection. A few drops prove that, while warm, the bottle won't be dangerous, and Slade chuckles lowly at his own paranoia as he wipes his wrist clean and replaces his sleeve, turning and catching sight of a little bird, eyes wide and messy hair making him look far younger than he is; a difficult feat, when he barely looks old enough to walk home from school alone normally.


	7. The Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade has a moment with Robin, who Is back to asking the same old question: who is Slade?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See below for warning.

Was Slade-- did Slade just--? Robin frowns, though if Slade’s mirthless chuckle is any indication, he just let his confusion show all too easily. But come on! Slade, the most notorious bad guy in all of Jump City, just tested a water bottle against his wrist! That's something that even Robin knows you do for babies. And, the move looked well practiced, more muscle memory than conscious thought It's just too weird, thinking that maybe, the man in front of him was once a father. Still a father? As much as it feels that way, Slade doesn't spend all day with Robin, surely there were times the man could slip away, spend time with a family? He shakes his head, teeth capturing his lip as the image grows. Would Slade’s kid already be a criminal? Or would his job be a secret, a lie about some office?

“Come to me, Richard.” Slade’s voice makes Robin jerk slightly, away from the confusing idea. No, no. Slade couldn't have been a father. No one deserves such an awful villain as a father… right?

But, still, there's something different about Slade right then, something calmer, if deeply sad. Like the man is in pain, but an old wound, ones that he's learned to carry if never heal. It's that, the quiet aura of sorrow, that lets Robin slowly step forward; or maybe, it's just how different Slade looks, out of his armor and into dress clothes. It's a shock, to finally see just how pale Slade is, and though he's too far away to truly see, Robin can imagine the scars on the man's hands. The first step is difficult, slow and unsure, but Slade doesn't snap. His eye doesn't narrow, he doesn't start to growl. That helps, some.

It takes more time than it should, Robin's willing to admit it, but eventually he's standing in front of his enemy. How Slade grabs him, pulling him effortlessly up and onto his hip, should not be as large of a surprise as it is. He doesn't even have time to attempt to mask his yelp at the sudden movement, reflexively tightening his legs around the man's waist.

“Hush.” Okay. This can't be Slade. He must have been replaced with something. A radioactive zombie, would be Beast Boys bet, another robot would probably be Cyborgs. Because Slade, the actual Slade, could never sound that soft. There's an undercurrent, of course, of mocking barbs, but beyond that: no. Just. No. Slade does not get to croon like that, gentle and low in his throat, raspy and... he does he dare say kind? It's not allowed. There have to be rules against villains sounding like that. Vaguely, Robin is aware he's panicking, rambling on even in his own thoughts; but to be fair, Slade normally gets this close for the sole purpose of hurting him.

His body expects that now, is completely thrown off guard by the way Slade is holding an iron arm to his back, keeping him still and safely anchored to the man. 

“Slade! Let me--" He never gets to finish the sentence, as the top of water bottle is filling his mouth instead of words. Whatever's inside is warm, creamy, when a few drops spill onto his tongue, but that doesn’t stop the sheer indignation turning his cheeks red, his protest muffled but heartfelt. Slade, however, just chuckles, following Robin's increasingly unhappy little jerks away from the green plastic. 

"Let you what, little bird? Down? No, I don't think so." Slade actually draws him tighter, pulling the arm around Robins back so there's less room for the boy to try and flee. "I don't tolerate sick children, and this will help you feel better. Drink it, or you will not find me so understanding." 

It's not so much Robin disbelieves Slade as he simply doesn't care, glaring fiercely at the man and squirming again. This isn't going to happen! This isn't-- What?

The stinging on his butt doesn't even register at first, just the sudden lack of pressure against his back, Slade's hand disappearing, the 'crack' of skin against his shorts. For one long, breathless moment, he’s blissfully unaware of what just happened.

That’s right about when the sting sets in. It _hurts_. Over the past few days, Robin has often wondered if Slade’s hand was made of iron, but now he’s certain of it, twisting in Slade’s arms as much as he dares. He has to get away, right now, because no one since. No one has-- 

The offensive water bottle is withdrawn from Robin’s face, and he can feel how wide his eyes are, the slight hitch in his breath as he tries and fails to calm down. Of all the things Slade could have done, why that? The bottle is being set on the counter now, and Slade tilts his head, eye widening into what Robin’s fairly sure a smirk. 

“Now that I have your attention, Richard, are you going to behave or do I need to continue this?” Threateningly, his newly freed hand hovers over the young hero’s vulnerable rear end. 

Richard's face is already red, and turning redder the longer he sits, but that’s understandable. Slade can’t quite believe himself either. He hadn’t quite planned that, hadn’t really thought about giving the child a well deserved swat, but he was wriggling around, despite a warning. Joey used to do that too, when he was ill or unhappy enough to forget what exactly it meant to have Slade Wilson as his father. It always just took a firm reprimand, to remind his son he was going too far, before Joey would bend, would obey. Richard has the same look now, wide eyed and shocked, maybe a little frightened; but… something deep in those crystal eyes is yielding. Not much, not yet, but it’s more than hours of harsh training and bone deep bruises have produced yet. 

Testing his hunch, Slade moves his hand, about to deliver an encouraging swat to receive his answer. And, yes, there he goes. Richard nods near frantically, attempting to free himself. That won’t do…

“Verbal answer, Richard, are you going to behave for me?” The juvenile tone-- honestly more instinct than cunning on Slade’s part-- makes Richard’s flush deepen, curling around the boy’s ears. Nostalgia makes another attempt to take root in his frozen, unfeeling heart, but Slade ruthlessly crushes it. It _does not matter_ Richard has Grant’s eyes, or Joey’s gentle heart. It does not matter he clings to Slade like Rose used to. It absolutely doesn’t matter that he’s still just a child. Slade was looking for an apprentice, not a son. The reminder makes his eye narrow, tone harsher now than a second ago. “Answer me!” 

And here's further proof he’s not Slade’s child. Slade’s children knew him, knew the consequences of balktalk and disobedience, knew not to cross their military trained father. They certainly knew not to glare like Richard is, not to answer a question with a question and to never,ever snarl said question at the already irate man. If Richard were his, he’d know these things as well, he wouldn't be doing this!

“Or what!? You'll beat me? Gotta say, getting kinda used to that now, Slade!” Robin winces as the words leave his mouth, trapped and well aware he's trapped, writhing on Slade’s hip as the man draws his hand back; another fierce stinging swat drawing an angry hiss from between his clenched teeth. But curse it, this pain isn't something he can really brace against either. It's stupid, and childish, and _humiliating!_ In fact, Robin's not sure which is worse: the humiliation of such an infantile punishment, or the fact it's actually somewhat working. His face burns, he wants to surrender and apologize, to duck his head and behave. It's just too close. Too much like what John Greyson did once or twice. It's the punishment between parents and children, something sacred, something that's not meant to _hurt,_ but more meant to _teach_. Slade has nothing to teach him! Nothing! A criminal and a mercenary, Robin should be the one teaching Slade. How to be a decent human being!

“One…” He's counting? He's actually counting now? Robin's unsure if he wants to laugh or hide more, stomach twisting unpleasantly in anticipation. “If I reach three, Richard, we will be going to your room and we can continue this… conversation there.”

The threat is clear, Slade’s bare hand hovering over his backside threateningly. 

Slade cannot quite believe himself. The swats were one thing, if anything they were well deserved many times over, but counting? Really? He half expects he's going to have to make good on his threat, already planning on how to best subdue the little brat, but Richard is blushing. Richard is blushing and looking away, clearly struggling with something.

“Two.” This time, Slade adds some encouragement, a slap of skin against skin, his hand to Richard's bared thigh, tights not included in the bundle of clothes he dropped off earlier. Instead, Richard is merely in short black shorts and a plain orange tee-shirt. Not much protection from well deserved punishment .

“Ow! Slade!” Okay… that one hurt. Significantly more than the prior two slaps. And those weren't exactly love taps. There's only one way to escape this, and he's not just saying that because he's starting to feel small and helpless. He's not. “F-fine! I'll behave! Is that what you wanted to hear!?”

“Without the attitude: yes.” but the hand doesn't fall again, instead reaching over for the water bottle. Slade brings it closer to the boy, noticing the look of deep disgust he eyes the thing with. “If you'd prefer, I can have my robots produce an actual baby bottle in about two minutes…?” 

That does the trick, Richard shivering against him, but closing his eyes and opening his mouth without further backtalk. He even starts drinking without prompting, slowly at first, then with greater enthusiasm as the drink is proven to be quite tasty. If it wouldn't have disturbed the quiet compliance, Slade might have chuckled at the child, slowly adjusting him to a better angle. As amusing as it was to watch Richard try and figure out how to both drink and stay secure on his hip, while he was the one holding the bottle, Slade knew it couldn't be overly comfortable.

Juggling the bottle, and he really should have a few actual bottles produced, for entertainment if nothing else, he slides one arm under Richard's legs, disengaging then from around his waist. It's fairly simple from there, letting his other arm slide up the boys back, curling around thin shoulders to continue offering the bottle. Only, this time, Richard was able to drink far more easily, a low hum sounding from his lips as blue eyes flutter open for the briefest of moments.

There is no mistaking the childish trust in the sapphire orbs, and Slade forgets himself, smiling down at the boy for a second. 

The moment doesn't last, of course, and Richard can't see the softening of hardened features, but it was there. It was there. And if, sneaking into the kitchen scant minutes later, one William Wintergreen sees Slade Wilson swaying back and forth in an instinctive, soothing rhythm, who would he tell? No one would believe such an odd, fanciful tale. It's well known, after all that Deathstroke the terminator has nothing soft or soothing about him, and nothing known to science will ever change that. Wintergreen smiles, face folding into a mass of wrinkles, before he leaves silently, abandoning the two to the unceasing mechanics of fate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief spanking of a young adult with a threat of more  
> Enjoy this brief peace. Chaos and pain are in the next few chapters.  
> Also, I just adopted two new cats and I'm so in love<3<3


	8. Training pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin tests. Slade tests back. And Wintergreen has a trick up his sleeve.

Richard finished the bottle a while ago. Despite this, for whatever reason, the boy is still sucking sleepily at the spout. It should have been annoying, the constant wet sucking sounds, but instead Slade almost enjoys them. They're steady, rhythmic in a way that matches the unconscious rocking of his body. He was aware of the movement the moment it started, of course, but hasn't found it important enough to stop. And, it actually seems to be easing the child closer to sleep. He'll still blink, look blearily around, but then his eyelids; as though pulled from an unimaginable weight, slip close again. Since he can't see, Slade doesn't resist the urge to smile. Such a smile hasn't been on his lips in a full eternity, soft without a mocking or sharp edge. The smile only grows when at last those crystal eyes don't peek out from the mass of dark lashes.

It messed up all of his plans for the day, yes. But Slade is inclined to believe he won a far greater victory over the boy then another day of bruises would have gained. 

Tomorrow, they could make up for lost time. Richard would study in his playpen, he would get some actual work done, and perhaps the smaller mindset would start to sway Richard to his side. 

  
  


Warm.

He was so, so warm. At first, that's all that registers. Warmth, and the sound of a steady heart, beating wetly under his ear. Then, tendrils of sleepy sluggishness unique to middle of the day naps slowing his mind, confusion makes his eyebrows twitch, then draw together. 

“You're awake.” Robin should jump, should get surprised and frightened, feeling Slade’s low voice rumble through the crisp white dress shirt his face is pressed against. But. He's tired, after all. And Slade, for all he makes Robin want to use the kind of words Alfred would have his hide over, is actually kinda of nice to lean on. Without the armor there's even a slight give under his cheek, flesh. Without truly thinking about it, he nudges his cheek a little closer, disgruntled that he was awoken. “And still little, I see.” 

At least Robin doesn't have to explain, even if it's not the exact truth. Not fully little, nowhere near fully big. In the middle. Where everything is fuzzy, and while he hates Slade, and wants him dead and bleeding, he also craves the hand slowly running through his hair. It's not all the time, more like the way humans pet a stray dog while reading a book, or click a pen when writing a paper, absently and only when it doesn't distract from their main task. It's nice, the leashed strength carding through his hair, briefly cupping the base of his skull with each pass. 

They're in the throne room, the gears grinding ceaselessly above, but like this, half asleep and lazy, no bad memories rise. His body stays lax, breathing light and peaceful. Slade seems to be working on something, arms flexing around Robin's bulk in time with the ‘click click clacks’ of keys on a keyboard.

It's not important to see what, to try and pry, not now. Instead reluctantly becoming more aware, blinking away sleep and the desire for more, Robin focuses his gaze on the back of the two toned mask. A mass of white hair spills from it, a ponytail barely able to restrain the silky, thick strands. He wants to touch it… Before his hand even moves however-- and when did it curl into Slade’s shirt, ruining the clean edges?-- Slade chuckles, and shakes his head.

“Don't touch my hair, little bird.” It's tempting to pout, as the head-shake moved the hair further away, but Robin forces himself not to. He. He couldn't choose, earlier. Slade had. Slade had… sp-- slapped him. Startled him and embarrassed him into falling down the rabbit hole. Now, however, he could claw back control. He could choose to be big. He can. But first, he draws a deep breath, trying to ignore Slade’s spicy overpowering scent, and pushes. Pushes his smaller side down, away, safe. Whatever Slades game is, the kindness towards Robin, the man cannot be trusted. Must not be trusted. 

“Weren’t you the one continuing to go on about weaknesses your enemies could exploit?” His voice is strong. Good. Determined, if a bit off balance both from the nap and sudden switching of mindsets. Slade, however, merely sighs. He clicks a few more times on the keyboard and turns the computer off, turning the chair out to face the large metal room.

“Richard.” Said on a sigh, Slade sounds genuinely disappointed, shaking his head once again. But this time, his hair lands closer to Robin’s fingertips, a few gossamer strands tickling the teen’s fingers. “If you truly have to learn everything the hard way, so be it. Go ahead. _Exploit my weakness_.”

Said so clearly sarcastic, so clearly mocking, Robin knows it's the last thing he should do. He's aware of the dangers. But... The draw of winning against Slade, even with a dirty underhand trick, is too tempting. So, he reaches out, gets his fingers well and truly tangled in surprisingly soft hair, and yanks with all the strength he can. Being both an acrobat and Bat-Trained, there's quite a bit of strength in his pull. Somehow, he's not surprised when Slade merely sighs, head following the harsh tug until Robin's arm can move no further. It doesn't take long, held in Slade’s lap, there's not much leverage he can gain. It's too easy to sense his mistake then, releasing Slade’s hair, twisting to get off.

But there's already a hard hand gripping his arm, and he's almost glad that it's not just the gloves, that Slade's hand is iron with or without the armor. 

“Will you ever learn something before I'm forced to beat it into your thick skull? When an enemy has you by something you cannot or will not cut off, you have two options: end them, permanently. Or, you can limit the damage they are able to inflict on you. Also, never challenge an enemy, posturing is a waste of time, energy, and you only succeed in looking _foolish!”_ Spitting the word, like most say “leech" or “moist", Slade grabs Robin's own hair, showing the boy just how motivating a proper hold can be. The hold is tight, electric pain as Slade easily stands, forcing Robin’s head lower and lower, until he's half crouching, as Slade stands, tall and unforgiving. “Enough. I'm through with your testing, I know your limits. Now, we are going to _break_ those limits.” 

Robin, from where he was attempting to free himself from the grip in his hair, freezes, half turning back to try and stare at Slade in sheer horror. Horror he tries to deny, dropping the hands that came up to try and pry Slade away.

“Testing!?” It's more of a yelp than not, frightened and not dating to believe what has hearing. So, Slade enunciates carefully and clearly, grey blue orb glaring balefully down into Robin’s own. It's like the grim reaper himself, casting judgement of everything Robin's ever done, about to drag him down to the centermost ring of hell.

“You thought the past week was your training? No. That was a test, one you consistently failed me in, Richard. You are to do much, much better from here on out.” Dismissive, Slade finally releases the boy hero’s spiky hair, pushing him into an ungainly sprawl, horrified gaze half pleading. Pleading for mercy Slade did not possess. “In the morning, we will have your intellectual studies at the table. After lunch, we will begin the physical aspect of your training. If you improve to the bare minimum of passable, you may be gifted a few hours of leisure time to spend as you see fit. Every day you will improve.” There's no need to add what would happen if Robin did not improve. More pain. More humiliation. More fear. 

“Behave and I can bring you to the heights of human performance, Richard. Disobey and continue to be this belligerent mess, and i will drag you to the depths of human fear. Do you understand me, child?” No response. Slade’s not truly expecting one, stepping over the child and glancing at the clock. Between his antics this morning and the nap he just awoke from, Richard had managed to blow half the day out of the water.

He should start the physical training right away, especially after watching Richard’s appalling lack of respect towards him. Should. But something holds him back. Less than twenty four hours have passed, and it's already much easier to read the boys expression, the tiny glimmer in his eyes that suggests he's not up for that.

Slade, normally, wouldn't care. Wouldn't be bothered to see the hint that maybe Richard wasn't fully out of that trusting mindset. And attacking him now would be useless, would devolve into another temper tantrum like the one earlier. 

Why not try to get something useful into the boys brain? Start with some computer coding, a simple lesson on sneaking around firewalls rather than attempting to overwhelm them? It'd be decent, and Slade already has a computer with appropriate simulations. It's decided, and he nods once, glancing over his shoulder. “Come.”

And Richard, proving there is _some_ sense of self preservation in that empty skull of his, obeys. 

  
  
  


Two weeks pass.

Robin is completely and utterly exhausted. Every muscle, every ligament, every single one of his cells are done. Wrung out. Dry. There's absolutely nothing left inside him. Hidden reserves he never knew he had are found, breached, and sucked dry. He walks around silently, because words mean taking away from the precious resources keeping his heart beating, his lungs breathing.

Every night, Slade ‘fights’ him until Robin passes out, and-- if Robin surrenders to the blackness even a second sooner than he did the night before-- Slade injects something in him that refuses to let Robin rest, forces his eyes wide. And, the one night he dared not fight back… it's just easier, less painful to fight back. 

True to his word, Slade had broken him. His limits? Gone the first night. Then the man seemed to almost enjoy continuing, pushing hard and fast and reckless. The only silver lining was Wintergreen had a magic salve or something, every night Dick is poured limply onto his mattress and someone comes in, rubs something into every bruise, every pain.

It's softly scented, some flowery thing that makes Robin ache in the vicinity of his chest; and creamy, so clearly expensive that he never would have touched otherwise. He wakes once during this, the only way he would have known someone was helping him, --as the cream is always gone in the morning, taking all traces of help-- face a bloody pulp and the rest of his body no better. Eyes swollen nearly shut, and the rest of his body just as bad, whoever it was remained a blur. But a blur with warm, strong hands, chasing away the fire licking at his limbs with the cool soothing strokes of their fingers. 

Robin may have cried at that point.

It was getting harder to remember when he stopped caring if Slade saw him cry. Tears or no tears, they finished the training session. Now the salty liquid runs unchecked from his eyes, barely having to adjust his breathing. A minor thing, really. Tears. They don't really do anything, do they? There and gone and maybe there again. Everything else remains the same, it's just harder to see if he's crying.

The blare of his alarm clock isn't enough to startle Robin, not really, but he does sit and wonder if it's really worth it to get up. If he doesn't, Slade will come in here, drag him out by his ear, clout him a few times. More pain. He's sad to say he's getting used to it at this point. And… it's so much energy to get up, to peel himself off from the sheets and force his legs to carry his weight down to the table. Not only that, but the very thought of food makes him sick, and he has to eat _all_ of whatever's placed on his plate. And, as though that wasn't bad enough, there's more computer training to handle from Slade. 

He hates computer training.

It's always the same things, lines and lines of code and learning how to get past them with the least amount of effort or time. Just practicing like this is a crime, he knows, and if he had enough energy, he'd hate Slade further for turning him into a criminal, for taking away his own identity. Robin was a _hero!_ He couldn't-- he couldn't become a criminal, right? Imagine what Bruce would say. Imagine what the Titans would say. He has to be better than this he has to resist. He, somehow, has to.

The need to resist, however, is a far away thought in Robin's clouded head. His alarm is still going off, but even that sounds distant and far away, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin there, looking blankly at the flashing red numbers demanding he move at 6:00 am on the dot. Get up, after he just passed out at 2 something in the morning. He'd fight someone for more sleep right now. Maybe rob a small bank? Anything. If he could sleep, if he could just take a little nap, his mind would tell him what to do, he's sure of it. Hell, right now he'd even accept Slade holding him, like he did the night of the bottle.

The memory of that night, how he clung so desperately to Slade, tightens his chest in shame. Deep inside, tucked in the furthest place in his soul, away from the pain, away from the confusion, his little side stirs. It's the longest he's gone without indulging, and even if he had enough energy to let his smaller side come out, he wouldn't. Slade is too unpredictable. Too prone to violence and anger at the slightest provocation, and his punishments are harsh. If that anger was turned on the softest, most vulnerable part of him… 

Robin shivers, unaware his eyes had slipped close until a familiar hand is gently cupping his cheek. It's Wintergreen, he discovers after a struggle to even lift his eyelids. 

“Child…” He starts, shaking his head after a long moment. “You're warm. Lay back down.”

There's steel under the old man's seemingly soft words, an order that says he expects as much obedience in this matter as Slade does in every matter. Robin wants to argue, really should, if anything he wants to go to the steam room and soak until his muscles surrender to the heat and finally stop aching. But Wintergreen is maneuvering him to his side, tucking the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. 

“Not a peep from you now, hush, and get some sleep. You need it, child.” There's a softness Robin hasn't seen before, when the butler smooths his hair down, a motion firm and relaxing, oddly intimate. Blindly, already easing back into the comfort of sleep, Robin pushes his head toward that gently touch, soaking it up like parched earth. 

William Randolph Wintergreen, carefully easing the boy into a deeper sleep, can't help the smile that lifts his lips. For all he is a hero, and far too young to be one, he is also just a child. An ill used child, currently and in the past, but a child all the same. Sweet and mild, when he chooses to be. Slade will not approve of the decision to return the child to sleep, as he was attempting to recreate the tried and true army hell-week, but any more and the boy would break. Break in ways Slade, for all his plans, cannot foresee or heal. William, however, can see the crack forming in Richard’s psyche. This is too much stress, too many bruises, for all that the modified serum takes those away overnight. The past two weeks, he's spent more time cleaning up blood than he's spent cooking or cleaning, his actual two jobs here. It's high time for a change, a change that only the young figure on the bed can breathe to life. But he has to be able to do that, and he can't.

Not as he is currently, pale and clearly unhealthy, losing weight no matter how many calories they press down his throat. 


	9. Slade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade considers the baby bird he possesses.

Will was correct: Slade was distinctly _unhappy_ that Richard was left in his room, eye narrowing as the older man enters, alone.

“Where's Richard? He's not being difficult again, is he?” Slade asks, surface level curiously. His eye, however, is telling another story, lit up with rage already. If Will said yes, unleashed that look upon Richard, he'd be to blame as much as Slade for the bruises that followed. That's something he cannot tolerate, shaking his silver capped skull slowly.

“The child was about to collapse. I sent him back to bed.” He would have continued, already moving in the kitchen to get a soup started. It takes ages, but bone soup would be best to help build Richard's health, and besides, Slade’s already standing, a furiously quick movement that send the chair screeching back before overbalancing and falling to the tile floor. 

“You did what?” His tone is incredulous, but Will chooses to take it as a serious question, settling a large pot of water on the stove. 

“Sent him back to bed. The serum does wonders, broken bones in a matter of hours, but it can't heal all the pain, Slade. The child was barely able to hold his head upright, he didn't notice me in his room until i touched his cheek!” The words are a sight more fiercely said than Will normally allows himself to get with his employer and oldest friend, but to see the boy swaying on his feet before the day even began, to see him attempt to get dressed and wince with every move. There are some things that an old heart cannot stand, and a child in pain is one of those things. “You told me, when we were preparing all of this, that you cared for the boy; that you would take care of him! This, this is not taking care with him. And-- would you take that bloody mask off!? He's not coming out of that room for a good long while, there is no one here for you to hide from, not from me.” 

It may be, however, that Slade was hiding from himself. From the truth in Will’s words. But to admit that would be admitting weakness, and so there's no hesitation as the man removes the two toned mask, setting it gently on the table. At first, he says nothing, fingers trailing over the metal, catching on the slits cut out for him to breathe. 

“I can't teach him what I am, not if he was fully aware, Will. He's smart, smarter than any of us were at his age, he'd be up and out of here, Daddy Bat would scoop him up the moment his nose leaves that door. I would never get him back, not who he is now. As he is, I can make him trust me, I can make an appearance of him. But if the Bat gets him? No.” The face Will is so used to, from years of friendship both during and after the Army, is bared in a possessive denial, as though Batman were waiting in shadows of their house even now. Will has seen the face, smooth and young despite the two being the same age, filled with both joy and despair. This angry passion doesn't scare him, not by a long shot. Instead, knowing it's the most emotion he's gotten from his friend in years, Will sighs, voice softening in response to the obvious emotion in Slades own. 

“You won't have an apprentice soon if you keep this up, though. He may be able to handle more of this than the common person ever should, but he _is_ still a child, Slade. Why don't… you let the boy regress? Tomorrow, instead of physical training? I think he needs it, more than he's ever going to admit. Remember who raised him, how he raised him.” The words, the reminder of the loveless life Richard had lived that so closely resembled theirs seems to work. Slade’s face twists in a grimace, but he nods, and the anger drains from the room like helium from a week old balloon.

  
  


Maybe, and just maybe, Will was right.

Slade frowns down at Richard, wrapped swaddling tight in his bed. Will hadn't just sent the boy back to bed, he'd _tucked him in._ Tightly enough he can hardly wriggle, not that it looks like he's been attempting to move, deathly still. Even in sleep, there's no true relaxation, his brow scrunched up unhappily and fitful whimpers coming from between his lips. 

Of its own accord, Slades hand slips down closer to Richard, lightly touching the between his brows, where the wrinkles were the worst. The immediate effect is nothing short of astonishing: the boy’s head turns towards the hand gently stroking over his forehead, the tiny whimpers cease as though they've never been, and his entire body melts into the mattress. How could one little touch bring such peace? If anyone dared attempting to touch Slade as he slept, they'd end up dearly paying, likely with the forfeit of the hand that boldly tried such a thing. Even Will was not allowed to touch him like that. And yet this boy... fragile and resilient both, seemingly welcomes the vulnerability. Even in the midst of his greatest enemies lair. 

What an odd child.

Shaking his head, to clear it of the irrevelent thoughts, Slade sits on the chair he pulls from Richard's small desk. One day, it will hold a computer and other treats, for now it's pathetically empty, not even a paper or pen marring the blank expanse. Pulling back the covers is done swiftly, but carefully so he doesn't wake. Once Richard is freed from the cotton and fluff, Slade grabs a small, unmarked container from the bottom drawer. The light flowery smell can't mask its medicinal undertones for his sensitive nose, but Richard would likely assume it's merely an expensive lotion or something. The ‘or something’ would never be guessed in all likelihood, not many would assume this to be the results of several long months in a lab, money funneled uncaringly into the project until human testing was available. And then, of course, weeks in another lab, until Slade had the healing serum deeply embedded into his DNA. At that point it was almost easy, though time consuming to ensure the serums stability, to reverse engineer his own version of the serum. He had this batch specifically calibrated for his young charge; the full dose would kill him, as it had the other 49 test subjects in Slade’s group, but by inputting a dash of Richard's own DNA and diluting the potent chemicals, Slade rendered it purely beneficial, if less effective than the concentrated mix he had received. In its true form, injectable, the serum would likely work better, but as Will had helpfully pointed out memories they share. Long days in the infirmary, a lightly scented cream the only indulgence the pretty nurses could ask for. It's the same scent that the cream in his hands hold, vague nagstolgia in his chest. He shakes off the feeling, frowning. Where are all these memories coming from? Ever since the boy… 

Slade shakes his head, growling just under his breath. He's too busy for such nonsense. Besides. Slade has no proof the injectable serum would be any sort of improvement, except in the case of broken bones. And Richard seemed to enjoy the massage. Every glide of Slades hands, rubbing the lotion firmly into the pale skin beneath his hands, would release a small hum of contentment. It could be relief as the pain the child was in lessened, but Slade had an inkling it wasn't. From all he's seen of the hero, Richard had lived a life with very little comforting touch. The Bat was cold and distant, reluctant to encourage attachments, and Richard had to be the leader of his little masked gang. Leaders can't exactly walk up and ask for kind affection the child seems 5o crave. Especially after being taught to see things like the Bat. 

Soon enough, Richard's arms were done, as well as the few bruises lingering on his face. As they healed under the creams power, the dark circles under Richard's eyes only became more prominent. The serum couldn't help that, unfortunately, but Slade still smears a careful finger over the ugly bags. Richard, peacefully asleep, nudges his face closer to Slade’s hand, blindly like a puppy seeking milk from its mother. 

“If you were this agreeable while awake, you'd be sent to bed with far less bruises.” At first, his voice makes Richard still, confusion furrowing his brow, but after a minute, the boy relaxes again. It's another display of foolish trust that's Slade’s main tool for manipulating the boy currently. _Civilians_ aren't supposed to be this trusting. Where does this little hero, this boy think he gets the right to endanger his life by senselessly trusting whoever stirs him from sleep? It was exactly the kind of trust Slade was attempting to build: an unquestioning, complete and utter controlling trust, but he hadn't earned it. Triumph tastes like dust, dissatisfaction. Trust was meant to take a long time to build, like he had told Richard at the start of this. To be given it so freely… he won't hesitate to take advantage of it, take advantage of Richard, but it still brings a twinge of unease low in his gut. If Richard trusts _him_ this easily now, after all Slades put him through, how easily could he be turned against Slade? 

No.

That cannot happen.

Slade forbids it, capping the cream for a moment. Richard is to be his apprentice, and his alone. He will _make_ the boy loyal to his cause, even if he must viciously clip Richard's fragile wings. 

It's a path he's more than willing to take. 

As though sensing the dark turn Slade’s mind had taken, Richard stirs slightly on the bed. Long eyelashes flutter for a moment, sleep dazed eyes peering out from under them, half shadowed. 

“‘Lade?” He questions, curious and confused. Shouldn't he understand? The Bat is somewhat of a decent detective, after all. His ward-- not son, never son-- should be able to put the clues together. But he still looks bewildered, no signs of actually rising from his stupor. 

“Richard.” Slade finally acknowledges, dipping his head in a shallow ‘hello’. “You're still hurt. Take your shirt off so I can take care of your back.”

It’s been a line Slades been unwilling to cross. Everytime he comes in at night, to ensure the next day Richard will be able to stand, he attempts to cover all the wounded skin. Every night, Richard is fast asleep, too exhausted to stir… at first. The moment Slades hands, gloveless so the leather doesn't get ruined, brush against the fabric concealing his torso, Richard squirms. Protests. Nothing much, he's still asleep, but enough Slade knows there's _some_ kind of trauma hiding under the cotton. He's been so far unwilling to push it, even softening his blows when they are too close to landing on the boys back. What's under there…? Will refuses to tell, face growing weary and sad the few times Slade brought it up, and without Richard's cooperation…

”Nuuh.” Which, it doesn't look like he's going to receive. Richard has his face all twisted up now, angry and scared at the same time, waking at Slade’s request. There's a look there, deep in his eyes, as they flare open with awareness of what he just said, and to who; that Slade recognizes. He's seen it before, after all, in the mirror and on others faces. It's the look of a terrified animal, certain death is knocking and in large amounts of pain, but baring their teeth and _daring_ whoever has them trapped to take another step. Its acknowledging pain and fear and no longer caring. It's accepting the price of their defiance and defying anyway. It's a look that Joey had given Slade right as he turned, slicing across his own throat to give Slade a clear shot at a mob member threatening him. 

It's a look that knocks the breath from Slade’s lungs. Memories, rioting out of control ever since Richard came, nearly drag him down. It's only by the tips of his ironclad control he's able to hold on, quickly glancing around the room and grounding himself in the present. Five things he sees. Four things feels. Three things he hears. Two things he smells... One thing he can taste.

That one thing is blood.

But the taste, remembered, he hasn't actually bitten through his lip though it's a near thing, anchors him in the room, in the moment. Anchors him to the still terrified teenager, still staring at Slade, not quite daring to move just yet. 

“Why?” Slade finally growls. There's a flinch, but Richard doesn't say anything, looking as far away from Slade as he possibly can. His defiance, sparkling like blue fire, drains as suddenly as it came to life. Slowly, darting lightning fast glances at Slade, he sits up, pushing his back firmly against the headboard, shoulders curving forward towards his still too skinny chest.

“Slade. P-please.” He… said please? Asked for something? The entire time they've shared the lair, Slade could count the number of times Richard said that word on one hand. On one finger, if said word was not preceded by a through beating. That, and that alone, convinces Slade to table the argument. For now. Later, he'll have words for the child.

Later, when images of _his_ children, of Grant and Joey and Rose stop hovering on the edges of his vision. They're gone. Far beyond his reach. Their ghosts should follow their example and just leave him alone already.

If his strides are heavy, if the door slams violently behind him, it's merely frustration with the boy.

He doesn't care if the child is traumatized, who dared hurt him, the one and only reason anger is licking along his throat is because this is yet another setback.

It has nothing to do with the actual boy.

Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLADE IS A LYING LIAR THAT LIES. Also, he absolutely would not give back the metaphorical mic for this chapter. It was supossed to be, 1-2 hundred words from his pov, but over 2,000 later... I had to give up.  
> Who exactly controls who? Writers or characters?


	10. A day to relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade, reluctantly, allows Richard a day to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Quick question before i start: would you guys mind if i took your comments and printed them out to hang on my wall? I've been struggling with finding my works any good, and having a reminder that people, and i have no idea why, actually like this would be amazing. If you don't mind, put what color/font you want your colors in down below please

He… actually left? Robin releases a breath he was unaware he was holding. Slade had-- there's so many odd things he can barely focus on just one. _Slade_ had been the one helping him each night? He had thought Wintergreen had… And what was that? Slade actually leaving when he was asked? With something like sadness in his grey-blue eye? 

Robin doesn't really get it. But the sleep has done him some good. He feels more alert, awake, ready to actually start planning. Slade has kept him trapped for too long already, he's not going to get another minute if Robin has anything to say about it.

  


Later, looking back, this was the exact moment change started creeping over the lair.

  


Eventually, bored of sitting and pondering Slade’s un-Slade-like behavior, Robin exits his room. He has a plan now, and it was so obvious he's faintly ashamed of himself, and Slade had not come back into his room. That alone emboldened him to brave the hallway, then the kitchen, and finally peek into the throne room. It shouldn't be a shock, to see Wintergreen alone in there, the old man seems to have free access to every room in the lair, but it is and Robin hesitates for several breathes in the threshold; before he can make up his mind to either enter or leave, however, the man looks up. 

“Richard? Are you alright now?” There's such clear concern, pure and unashamed, in the aged voice Robin feels the very edges of his lips curl into a smile. It's… smiles shouldn't feel weird. Even miserable at Batmans house came with smiles, rare and more wry than actually amused, but they were there. Here, Robin hadnt had to even put on a fake smile, hadn't been asked if everything was okay in a long time. Maybe that's why his voice came out softer, gentler than he was expecting.

“Better, thank you Mr. Wintergreen.” The honorific seems more natural now, shaping easily in his mouth around the strange shape of his smile. 

The butler smiles in return, revealing a far softer countenance than Robin had first thought possible, on that first awful day. 

“You're welcome, I don't like sick children in my home, and I'm sure you don't particularly enjoy being sick, hmm?” Softly, the older man hums, as he sets aside dusting cloth he had just been working with. “Sick and unhappy children. Both are rather strictly banned, I'm afraid.” 

Robin starts to protest, he's not actually a child after all, but the man is looking at him so softly. There's such kindness and compassion in Wintergreen’s eyes that he lets it go. Maybe… it's not the worst thing to let himself be called a child right now. He's not going to act like it, not going to let his softer side free from the depth of his mind, but a small offering of comfort wont do any harm. 

“Well, if I'm being banned from unhappiness, what should I do?” Half teasing, and half genuinely curious, Robin asks. It feel nice to tilt his head, basking as the simple motion doesn't send pain cascading down his back. The lack of pain is the best thing about today, he decides, stretching his arms just because he can. “I'm not as good as you are, but I could do some cooking? Or I can--" 

Wintergreen was shaking his head before robin was halfway finished with his sentence. “No, days like today are going to be rare for you. You should be enjoying it…” Hopefully, enjoying it by fully relaxing, bringing out his younger mindset. Wintergreen wanted to meet the younger boy, Slade so far had been his only interaction, and while Slade had been a father, that time was long ago. Separated by trauma and time, there was very little that was natural for Slade around children. “Why don't you sit down, watch some tv?” 

“I could really do that?” Robin leans forward, knowing his eyes were bright and wide with poorly suppressed excitement. Even if he couldn't be out there, being allowed the TV was a minor window to the real world. “Where?”

“In the den, hold on though, I need to come with.” The boys looks nothing more like a puppy, seeing a treat in someone's hand. There's such a look of joy that Will smiles before he can truly help it, stepping to the side and replacing the cleaning supplies in a nearby closet cleverly hidden in the wall. “I will keep hold of the remote, there's no need to get yourself in trouble, today's going to be relaxing.”

There's no need for the old man to worry himself. Robin is so eager to be allowed to watch tv, something so normal!, he wouldn't misbehave for anything less than a chance at escape. And that's about as likely as Slade dancing the chicken dance. He even, when Wintergreen takes a moment too long replacing his tools, helps settle everything tidily back into its proper place. With the last dustpan neatly on a wall hook, the door slides soundlessly shut, impossible to see unless he looked for the tiny crack in the metal. There's not even a palm scanner!

Mentally filing away the spot, a possible hiding spot away from Slade, Robin easily sails over the back of the couch in the next room. Outside of trying to survive three seconds against Slade, he hasn't used his acrobatic skills much, and the easy obedience of his body singing midair is a small piece of home. 

“Richard!” And a small piece of Wayne Manor, apparently. Robin half expects to turn and see Alfred, a lecture on his lips about what is and is not an acro-brat’s training toy. Instead, it's just Wintergreen, hurrying around the couch. Seeing Robin, standing still and apparently unharmed with a swiftly waning smile, makes him pause as well. 

“Are you…?” Whatever he was about to say is lost, as he just shakes his head, exhaling low and slowly. “You're okay. Easy on an old man's heart, now. All I saw was you disappearing over the edge of the couch, I wasn't sure what…” Wintergreen cuts himself off, unwilling to continue. The last time he saw a child disappear that swiftly, said child ended up dead. 

Awkwardly, they stand for a moment, both curious about what the other is thinking; one too reserved and the other too wary to give voice to their questions. Wintergreen is the first to break it, which Robin is near pathetically grateful for. 

“What would you like to watch then?” He asks, gesturing towards the flat screen TV neatly tucked against the far wall. 

“The news.” Instantly, Robin gravitates toward a substantial link to the outside world, a small bit of information. Even if he couldn't be out there, fighting crime by their side, he could silently encourage them from in Slade’s lair. Unfortunately, before he even finishes the thought, Wintergreen is shaking his head.

“That would only distress you. Let's watch something else. What do you normally watch?” As if he didn't just take away the one thing Robin actually wanted to watch. He grits his teeth, attempting not to snap at the man.

“I watch the news.” Grudgingly, Robin manages to modulate his tone to something near calm. Slade does not approve of anything less than total respect when Robin talks to the old butler, and he wasn't in the mood to be beaten again, not when he feels so nice right now.

“Is that all?” There's a hint of unhappiness in Wintergreen’s voice, a quiet distress. He continues, however, before Richard can do more than curiously tilt his head. The motion is so childlike, so innocent Will almost smiles, if he wasn't too busy frowning. A 13 year old child, only watching the news? What a sad life. “Then it's far past time for you to try something new.” 

“No, thank you. I--" 

“Would be more than happy to watch whatever you pick out, right, Richard?” Slade interrupts Robin mid-sentence, leaning faux casually against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Robin knows what those arms can do. Especially covered in his Kevlar armor. Quickly looking away, Robin sighs bodily.

“Slade, I really don't--" 

“Want to watch TV while hurting? I do so agree. So sit down, and thank Mr. Wintergreen for his kindness. Or, we can go into the training room and see if that will entice your manners…?” Slade interrupts again, prowling forward in silent, deadly motions. 

“No need, I'm sorry, sir.” For all it burns his pride to surrender so quickly to Slade, Robin does so without hesitation. He knows what will happen if he didn't apologize swiftly. There's a deeply unhappy cast to his face, though, when Slade nods sharply. The older man sits, next to Wintergreen, and gestures at the overstuffed armchair when Robin made no move to copy them. Obediently, because what else can he do?, Robin sinks into the comfort of the chair, staring blankly at the flashing screen.

“Follow me, Richard.” Slade says simply. He hasn't meant to reveal the next surprise so soon, but his old friend had convinced him. If threatening him counted as convincing. But, fair, today was supposed to be a calm, relaxing day for the high strung teen. And zoning out unhappily was not relaxing. If it meant ensuring Will would not, as threatened, take a three week vacation and leave Slade with the brat Slade was willing to allow a small amount of leeway. Slipping his phone-- which the elder two had been communicating on to ensure the little bird didn't notice any dissent-- into his pocket, Slade stands gracefully. 

One good thing that the two hard weeks had sown, is that Richard follows without question now. He's at least marginally obedient to Slades whims now, folding and submitting without so much of a hint of the defiant wildfire that blazed so easily before. Soft footfall, not quite silent, not to Slades honed ears; follow just behind him. Together in wary silence, the pair pad down the maze of short hallways, until a final blink of green light allows entry to a surprise for the young bird: an entire professional acrobat training room. Slade steps back, allows the younger to take a few steps into the room. He's silent, so still and quiet that if Slade were any less sure of himself, he'd be worried the teen didn't like it. As it was, the sheen in the young man's eyes certainly wasn't sorrow.

“Is… this for me?” Softer than Slade had ever heard it, the voice that comes from Richard’s throat is awe. Pure, simple awe. He sounds so… shy, so hesitant. That doesn't sit well with Slade. This was a gift, an expensive and thought out one, and yet Richard sounded more like he was mourning rather than celebrating. Like he was already expecting this to be ruined, taken harshly from him. Taken. And maybe given to someone else, without the meaning he so obviously places in it.

“Yes.” One hand gestures to the expanse of fabric, wood, and metal. The salesperson assured it was top of the line quality, had looked with wistful longing once the entirety of the equipment had been installed. There was even a safety net, strung high above their heads, just in case Richard's grip falters, if a rope or cable is faulty. The room soars up, easily two or three regular floors merged to offer a truly beautiful playground for a little bird. “I was assured there was everything an acrobat could ever wish. The equipment was checked over by myself, every strand, every inch. It's safer than your own bed.” 

That shouldn't reassure Robin. His parents, after all, had trusted the wrong person to check their equipment and look where it got them. But there's a new note in Slade’s voice, matching the aura he had two weeks ago, when he forced a bottle down Robin’s throat. A hidden, aching sadness that seemed to bow even his proud shoulders. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask, but Robin refrians, mostly because poking at old wounds can get anyone angry. And when Slade is angry, he ends up with bruises. 

Instead, he focuses on the array of equipment in front of him. Both High and Low bars, parallel bars, triboards and pegboards, a multibar, vaults and horses and rings. There's even handspring trainers, aerial rings and silks, along with the more classic trapeze gear, all high above his head. The circus would have paid a small fortune to let their tumblers play on this equipment, much less own it. It's more than even Batman owned, more than Robin ever dreamed of seeing with his own two eyes. And everything brand new, shiney without a faint layer of chalk. It's frankly incredible, and his fingers trail over the nearest gleaming surface without his permission. But the floor is soft under his bare feet, and it _smells_ right... 

Mostly right. It's missing the tang of sweat, his mother's perfume, and the background of deep fried food. But it's close. So close.

Robin’s lungs empty entirely, filling back up with the smell of _home_ , so completely it hurts a little. Not just emotionally, though there's a twing there too, but physically over inflating his lungs until not another molecule of oxygen can enter. 

“I’m gonna… can I..?” Robin looks back at Slade, entirely uncaring that his face is painfully hopeful. Vulnerable. Slade could hurt him so easily now, by merely saying ‘no’, by showing him this treasure trove and cruelly yanking it away without even letting him have the slightest taste…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are catching up to where I'm at, and so i have a question. Slade has, as I stated before, been in the army. He will end up having a PTSD/flashback episode. Would you guys like that incorporated in this story or a single chapter story all its own?   
> It will be fairly graphic and difficult for all parties involved, but it will also give a much deeper insight to his character.


	11. Spank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those cursed 's'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING.  
> There is spanking in this chapter. Of a teenager and a creepy older man. Just saying

“Yes, you may. This is your day off… enjoy it while it lasts, apprentice.”If Slade had been hoping to dampen the boys excitement, he would have been sorely mistaken.

Richard's eyes lit up, glowing with some internal happiness Slade was not privy to. It takes another nod,-- and why is the child staring at him like that? Like he ever needed Slade’s permission?-- But there's a fast moving blur, straight for the aerial silks all in rich orange and blacks of course. Within moments, Richard was nothing but grace and beauty in the air, fairly flying from one form to another, proving his hero name had some foundation after all.

Now, it wouldn't hurt to just stand here a minute, would It? Just stand, quietly in a corner and watch a little hatching find its wings again. 

  
  


That night, Robin falls to his bed with a different ache grinding in his bones. A happier kind of ache, of a cleared mind and happy heart, the kind where his body still thinks its flying and so the bed feels like the softest cloud. Slade had let him soar as long as he wished, until his arms were jello and his legs were noodles, and his fingers lost their grip, sending him tumbling gracelessly down to the safety net. Even then, he was breathless, laughing like he hasn't in _years_. He would have gotten up, tried again, but Slade shook his head, told him to clean up and put away the what he used. 

It was no hardship to do so, and it wasn't distressing to allow the older man to rest a hand on his shoulder, guide him gently back to his room. In fact, it was almost pleasant, especially since Slade kept himself silent and pulled off his glove. The skin to skin contact nearly made Robin groan, but he figures he's safe from blame: exhausted and happy for the first time since he came to the haunt. 

In fact…

Robin truly doesn't think too much about it. He's still riding the high from the bars, barely able to keep his feet on the ground. So tired, yet keyed up. He can't sleep, not like this. But he knows what could help him…

“‘Lade?” That's his little voice, Dick’s voice. Yielding and soft even to his own ears. It's the voice of a child, and like the air under his feet from earlier, he revels in it. Revels in the memories and the feeling of being safe and looked after and so very, very small. He smiles, just as soft, just as easy and nuzzles into the hand currently lowering his head gently to the pillows below. 

Slade, hearing his name childishly shortened, pauses, looking down at the thoroughly exhausted boy. It's not quite fair, how easily the boy has relaxed, when Slade’s own chest is still tight with adrenaline. Seeing the tiny body falling like that… all his effort and planning down the drain… but it hadn't been his plans that drew a ragged yell to his throat, hadn't been wasted effort he was thinking off, hadn't even been the waste of a perfect apprentice that made his knees shake. All he could think, that long moment where he had to trust the safety net would do its job, was ‘No. No! Not again!’ only when the boy was leaning on him to get back to his room could Slade relax some. Some. Not very much, not until he went and check over the equipment once again, find the flaw that cost his bird a solid grip. 

“Yes, little bird?” But that could wait, obviously. Richard was smiling at him, a smile like sunrise in the artificially darkened room. What he had done to earn that smile, Slade had no idea. But it was preferable to the waterworks Richard had displayed every other time they met like this. 

“Nook? ‘Olfie?” The words made no sense, particularly only half formed. Slade narrows his eye, raising an eyebrow though Richard couldn't see.

“Excuse me?”

“Nook! ‘Olfie!” The ‘words’ were repeated, more firmly as though that would make their meaning plain. 

“Richard, I have no earthly idea what you are attempting to say. Tell me what you want, clearly.” Ensuring his own words were carefully enunciated, Slade pauses, waits to see if the child will follow his good example.

“Want Nooook! Want ‘Olf-ie!” No such luck. But that tone was bordering on unacceptable. Slade allows his frown to deepen, single eye narrowing dangerously. The boy doesn't seem to mind, scowling back at him. 

“Watch your tone, young man. I do not know what an “olfie" or a “nook" is, and i know many languages.” His lack of knowledge doesn't seem to phase the young hero, as he repeats his request several more times at increasing volumes. The child screaming it, however, eyes squeezed tightly shut as though that improves his volume, finally snaps Slade out of his determination to be gentle around the boy. If said boy is so intent on giving Slade a pounding headache, then Slade is willing to put the fear of a caretaker into him. 

“Listen to me!” Full out snarling now, single eye stretched wide as it could go, Slade slams a hand against the wall, unsurprised when the drywall cracks under the force. “I do not have a single blasted idea what you are referring to and I will not, no matter the volume at which you screech. _Show_ me what you want!” 

And so, Robin, thoroughly fed up with what was a pleasant game, stabs his finger in the air. Pointing over, at the open closet, and up some. At the broken cardboard box Slade has punched nearly a month ago. 

“... That? You want your pacifier?” Slade asks, incredulous and frustrated in equal measures. Rage is in every breath he takes, the air spicy as he inhales deeply through his nose. 

“Nook.” Oh. He's going to kill this child before the night is through, kill him and forget this entire far fetched idea about obtaining an apprentice. The thought is darkly appealing, especially when Slade lowers the box and Richard eagerly reaches out to put his grubby little hands all over it. 

“What else?” The words are very nearly growls, low and furious, but Richard doesn't care. Not in the slightest. He's too busy happily shoving the silicone into his mouth, humming happily and pulling out the plush wolf. 

“Olfie!” He chirps happily. Of course. Wolfie, and drop the ‘w’ to make it more childish. Slade could almost understand. Almost. As it is, the plushie is going to be burned at a later date. 

“Anything. Else?” Robin nods. While nearly perfect, there was just one thing missing. He had his nook, already between his lips with a delightful familiarity, and he had his wolf, heavy and soft. The one thing he needed, he never had before. Not ever.

Quickly, if a little clumsily from the earlier workout, his hand shoots out. It wraps around Slades wrist, the metal cold but concealing warm, warm hands, and tugs.

“‘Tay, ‘Lade, ‘Tay.” Slade doesn't need a translation for this one, big blue eyes begging got the message across just fine.

“We're going to work on you ‘s’s, little bird.” The warning, however, falls on deaf little ears, as Richard curls tightly against Slade’s side. There's nowhere else to put his hands, but on the mass of black hair and on the elegantly sloped back in front of him. As before, any soft contact prompts a long sigh, and a sudden melting of the teen's limbs. It's, to put it in pedestrian terms, subjectively adorable. 

It doesn't move Slade one bit. 

Not even when the little bird pauses, frowns, and resettled himself, head right over the wet beating of Slade’s heart with a content little grumble. 

The boy means nothing to him. Truly.

  
  


How many times is he going to wake up like this? He may have been flying high yesterday, but today Robin’s feet are firmly on the ground. On the ground, and curled around Slade’s chest, apparently. One arm is even draped peacefully over the mercenary’s chest like it belongs there! Jerking back in disgusted shock, his dismay growing when a steel beam masquerading as an arm pins him firmly in place. 

“None of that, little bird. It's early.” Slade rumbling chest actually moves Robin’s head a little, powerful vibrations. 

“I'm actually--" 

“I know. But you seem to forget our deal. I believe that display last night was firmly under the category of tantrum, don't you think?” Even if Robin had a satisfactory answer to that, he wouldn't be able to say it, pressed back into Slade’s chest and kept there with one large hand. “So glad you agree, now hush and just think about all the _fun_ you're going to have today.”

If that wasn't a threat, Robin would eat his own cape. Or Beast Boy’s tofu. One or the other, both at once… no. Just. No. 

It seems like ages until Slades grip relaxes enough for Robin to squirm free, which he does quickly enough to put kid Flash to shame. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite swiftly enough, as Slade had his arm captured before he had even rolled off the bed. 

“Don't go trying to run now, Richard.” That tone… Robin shivers unintentionally. It's dark, calm on the surface with sharp undercurrents. Still waters hiding the turbulent depths and all that. Robin frowns, tugging on his arm. It's a futile effort, of course, and Slade just picks him up. Insultingly easily, as though he were no more than an actual child.

“Slade! Knock this off-!” A sting blooms low across the his butt, and Robin hisses. The sharply in drawn breath cuts off the rest of his sentence, angrily falling silent. Oh, but he hates this! Helpless against Slade, helpless against himself as his muscles long to relax in the presence of someone so much stronger, someone holding him with a bizarre parody of gentleness. 

He sounds like a kitten. An angry little kitten, thinking he's intimidating as he's held harmlessly by the scruff of his neck. It's greatly amusing to Slade, both the reaction and the mild chastizement that caused it. The rest of the day should continue in the same vein, especially if Richard followed his his pathetically predictable path of resistance all day. 

“That's better, now isn't it, Richard? You might find this distasteful now, but I guarantee… you'll learn to like it.” Richard, curled up so helplessly, scowls darkly up at Slade. But Slade has had all night to develop a plan for today, and no amount of frankly adorable scowling is going to get in his way.

No. 

No way in hell. Why--

Startled-- a sippy cup, really?-- Robin tears his eyes away from the chair to look in dismay at the table setting put out for him. Humiliation, Slades plan obviously, burn acid bright in his veins. There's everything needed for a toddler: plastic utensils, character based plate and bowl, and a little sippy cup of milk and juice each adorn a non-slip placemat. All are sized to easily fit his near-adult hands and mouth, but that almost makes it worse, knowing Slade had to pick and make each of these especially for him. 

“Slade! No!” Another swat ends his miserable protests, clenching his eyes shut as Slade sets him securely in the high chair, transferring the simple breakfast from the table to the plastic tray secured after various loops and straps ensure Robin can barely wiggle, much less break free. 

“Be a good boy, Richard. Eat up, unless you need my help…?” That got movement, swiftly too. Slade could almost see the proud spirit in front of him bowing, molding to his command. It's not much, but two light spanks and Richard had fallen to heel like he never had even during the roughest punishment spar. Beautiful. Will doesn't approve, clearly, shooting narrow little glares at him whenever Richard is too busy attempting to get juice from his sippy cup. Slade can almost see why: the aged man wished for peace through mutual respect and goals. He didn't understand Richard the way Slade does. Richard would fight, would do everything short of killing to free himself from their grasp. Anything to prevent that, including breaking his soul to rebuild him in Slade’s image, would only be a benefit. And, if the humiliation feels a little like payback for all the _stupid, troublesome_ bull the little brat has put him through… then it's all fair. Slade is the one, after all, having to deal with all the unwanted, useless memories plaguing him every waking moment. 

After breakfast, and a few threats about a bottle to ensure the thin boy ate properly, Slade picks up his burden again. He's staying silent, sullen at the moment but that's more than okay. He'll talk soon enough.

“Yesterday, I noticed you had trouble say ‘s’ properly. Today, we are going to fix that. Every mistake will earn you a spank, as will every time you ignore me or give me attitude. Do you understand me?” 

“Slade! What!? No! I can speak-- OW! Stop that! Sto-- okay! Okay! Yes! I understand!” Robin curses quietly in his mind. Slades hand hurt, badly. He can't stop squirming, especially when he's suddenly turned face down over the man's lap, yelping at the sudden transition.

“This may offer a better position for you to pay attention, wouldn't you say?” Another two smacks are required for the bird to settle in and lay still, but if there was one thing Slade knew, it was patience. And he was patient enough to allow the squirming boy enough time to stop fighting, to give in and let his upper body go limp over the cold stone throne. “That's better. Now, repeat after me: ‘Slade, superiorly skilled, spanks the sarcastic smirk off smug sparrows.’”

“S-Slade-- ow!” 

“No hesitation now, Richard. Repeat what I said.”

It's a long, slow process. Eventually, however, tears stinging his eyes and dignity fallen far behind; Robin is able to parrot the words to Slade exacting standards, gasping slightly at each burning correction.

“Very good, little bird. Again, repeat after me:--" 

They go through easily five or six sentences. Each basically the same as the last, the stinging swats coming less and less often as Robin hastily improves under the sharp reprimands. Only after positively _delightful_ phrases such as: "Slade is significantly stronger than stupid small sparrows, replaced with a subpar substitute.", "A sparrow has been spoiled by superficial support, and never served as a son.", "Shamed sparrows must submit to strong soldiers, saving them from succumbing to their sins.", "Slade supersedes spandex wearing sparrows.", and "Slade is far above a sparrows Station, spanking sparrows sharply for their slothful improvement during lessons." does the man allow Robin a moment to breathe, resting his gloved hand low on Robin’s back. 

“Very, very good, Richard. I am so very pleased that you can be taught. Maybe this was all you needed all along, huh? A guiding hand?” Slade laughs at the automatic, if watery, denial, patting the tensed back under his hand. So like Grant that it burns like acid in his remaining eye. Grant would have never… no. He's no longer sure what Grant would, or would not do. Richard… is so different from the boy, though their looks are similar. To compare them, would be to court failure. Slade will not fail a second black haired-blue eyed boy. Even if he needs to break down said boy thoroughly, he will never disobey like Grant had. He will never deal with the fatal consequences of going behind Slade’s back. “True, or not, we are almost done. Behave, and you can continue the day. Dont…” He lays a near soft pat to the upturned butt over his lap, showing the consequences of disobedience.

Raven hair quickly bounces in agreement, a soft sound leaving the boy.

“Good, repeat after me: No matter what I, Richard Greyson, attempt or do, Slade will always _always_ win. Resistance is futile. Surrender is the only way to survive." This last sentence deviated from the supposed speech therapy lesson, but supported the underlining one, one Slade hoped had sunk deep into the boys subconscious.

“No! No! Slade--" There started the predictable resistance, cut short as two blistering wallops landed firmly on already sore areas. Over his lap, Richard gasps and squirms, trying to get away. It's futile, and Slade lays another punishing swat over the same spot he has been, never moving even a centimeter. It's amazing how quickly the boy settles, going obediently limp. He still begs though, face hidden in one elbow.

“That's… just wrong-- ow!” It's quieter now, resigned. Miserable. Robin hates himself, a little more with each word he has forced from his lips. His one consultation is he hasn't actually allowed the tears to fall from his eyes yet. Just yesterday he had idly admitted tears change nothing so they were unimportant at best, but a good night's rest had reminded him: tears were a weakness. A weapon he gave to Slade with each and every droplet. Besides, an actual beating was one thing, anyone would cry, but a spanking… he was 14, passing regularly as 16 if not older, he would not cry over Slades lap like a baby. No matter if he felt smaller and smaller with each strike, like Slade was physically swatting the weeks and months off his age. The rest, all hissing curved words, he was able to pass off as strange limericks, odd poetry. This last sentence… if he said it, if he admitted it out loud if not in the surface of his soul… hed believe it. He'd begin to resign himself to this hellscape, lose the battle before its fought. 


	12. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Heh. Heh. Technically, it's still Friday. I had a dream I posted this at like 3am, just found out I didnt.  
> Slight warning for Slade starting to panic, which will lead to a PTSD flashback/disassociative episode.  
> The next few chapters are going to be rough on all the characters. If you are sensitive to cliffhangers or want to wait until you can read through the hard part and everything is slightly softer, put some way of reaching you in the comments and I will.

“I'm waiting, Richard…” A warning, possibly the last. Robin wants to whimper, to hide away from the man doling out hard, unyielding slaps against his soft skin. But there's nowhere to hide and the throne is harsh stone against his face, as strong and immobile as the man behind him.

“S-Slade…” Quietly, as pleading as he can, Robin tries again. And fails again as an audible whine leaves his clenched teeth as the man-- no, as the devil himself lays down another slap, the sound echoing strangely. 

“Repeat it, Richard. Or, I can convince you. I'm sure these little taps would be far more effective on bare skin…” Clever fingers, too swift for Robin to reach back and stop them, toy with edge of the sweats he'd taken to wearing during the past two weeks.

“No! No need! I-I’'ll say it.” And just as swiftly, the intruding fingers retreat. 

“Then do so, you're wearing my patience thin.”

“No m-matter what I-I, Richa-Richard Greyson,” Thankfully, Slade doesn't seem intent on punishing him for the many small stops, the way the words come out shaking and stuttering across his lips. 

At least, he doesn't at first. At the end of the horrid phrase, only rapid blinking keeping tears inside his lids, and Slade unleashed a barrage of rapid fire smacks that forcefully drag an embarrassing series of yelps from his lips. 

“Good boy. But you didn't sound convinced. Repeat that for me.” Slades mocking, Robin knows he is. But… being called good boy, it soothes a part of he he wasn't aware was hurt, warming his soul when he didn't know he was cold. He shivers, miserably shaking his head, opening his mouth obediently. 

  


He's no longer sure how many times he repeats the line Slade gives him, each spoken word a line in a net, dragging him deeper into murky depths where Slades word was law. He's starting to believe it, to accept Slade will always win when he can't hold back his tears anymore. It's equal parts the pain, Slade still refused to strike anywhere but the single hand shaped agony Robin’s sure is glowing through his pants, and the surrender to the man's will. His voice breaks, the last word coming mangled almost beyond understanding. The firestorm of slaps that follow are the last straw, his older mind twisting miserably away from the torture and retreating deep inside himself, where reality cannot touch him. 

Slade can feel it the moment the boy over his lap loses the fight to remain strong. There's a low wail in the room, echoing against the high ceilings, in tandem with the shivering, shuddering muscles that lie under his palm. 

“Little bird…” Later, Slade would deny the croon that softens his voice, or how soft his hands were when he turns the boy over, pulling him to his chest. It's such an instinctive, unthinking move, he surprises himself. Thankfully, Richard has no such qualms, instantly grabbing two fistfuls of the Kevlar covering Slades chest, and attempting to bury his face in the material as well.

“Now, now, none of these dramatics…” Richard just whimpers, pressing closer, until one of Slade’s hands, entirely of its own accord, slips around his back; tightening his hold and keeping the young teen close.

“You're alright, little bird, just one more thing for me, alright?” 

It's the gentlest Slade has ever addressed the child, near silent. The next moments could break him, a small kindness would not be too great a sacrifice. There's no coherent response, but Slade presses on anyway, looking down at the mess of black hair thats attached to his chest.

“I just need you to say something for me. You can do that, yes?” it takes a minute, but the boy nods, and Slade rewards him with a small, encouraging squeeze to his shoulder. “Good boy, now after me: No matter what I, Richard Greyson, attempt--” 

Clutched tightly against his arch nemesis, crying and feeling nothing more than a baby, the once-hero feels the words lodge themselves deep in his psyche. They're… they can't be… but they are true…? Robin doesn't want them to be true. He wants none of this to be true. But he also wants the way Slade is keeping him close, the soft hand that wipes away most of the cloying tears around his face. Maybe, he even wants the way that single blue-grey eye looks at him behind the sea of orange, like there's something inside him worth something. Worth anything at all. Batman… Batman never let him feel like that.

  
  


It's no surprise when Richard falls asleep, though it always manages to startle Slade slightly. Especially like this, with no fresh visible injuries yet the delicate tear tracks falling down acrostic features. This was the important lesson, anyway, Richard can take a nap all he wants. Quietly, so not to disturb the slight bundle in his arms, Slade stands, adjust his burden to ensure the least amount of pressure is pressed against the spot he was just assaulting. Soon enough, the baby bird is safely in his playpen and Slade settles in to do some work, always keeping a small part of his attention on the steadily sleeping boy in the corner.

For the moment, it's a good kind of peaceful, the kind rarely felt in the lair.

  
  


The peace stretches one week, then two. After their hand to heart session, and Slade later feeding the boy another soothing drink from the water bottle, Richard… he doesn't settle, not exactly. But there's new hesitancy in his arguments, a beat of time between Slades action and his reaction. He still reacts, of course, still snarls and snaps at Slade, but there's at least a small part of him cringing away from that. Even before Slade corrects him with fists and hard, open handed slaps across the face. It's small, but enough to clearly show Slade’s plan in action, that despite the fact Richard is still fighting, the words are taking effect. More of an effect than Slade anticipated, actually. Because, everytime Richard goes too far, everytime Richard doesn't need Slade’s warnings, Slades hits, instead of shutting down; the boy regresses. 

It's sudden and unpredictable, and a few times Slade has barely been able to halt the forward momentum behind his hands, when anger turns to sorrow and resistance turns to needy hands pulling him _closer._

Now, he sees the small boy maybe once every other day. Never for long, Richard claws his way back with hard, desperate breathing, but long enough. Long enough Slades arms grow used to the weight of a child again. A light, trusting child. A child that swings high above the ground, laughter light and unashamed. A child that trustingly drops, calling “Catch Me! ‘Lade!” And believes in an old mercenary enough to _close his eyes_ on the way down. A child that curls closer when Slade makes tea in the old green sports bottle that's rapidly becoming Richard's. A child that, late at night and nursing bruises his older self has more than earned, looks up with tear filled eyes and apologizes so sincerely for whatever he did to earn them that something twists deep in Slades chest, and no amount of rubbing can soothe the ache. 

Though he would not, will never, admit it. Slade is growing… somewhat fond of the small creature. The older side, he is _nothing_ more than a means to an end. And, to an extent, the younger is as well, but Slade has never been interested in lying to himself. If the boy were merely a means to an end, he would not tolerate entertaining the baby bird for as long as he does. 

Sighing, and fitting a hand under his mask to rub tiredly at his eye, Slade stands. It's far past time for Richard to wake up, and the useless thoughts clinging to his mind serve no purpose. If there were a way to rid himself of past demons, they would be far from him, but it seems the hero in his possession is the root cause. Such a foolish child… Though the child is improving, rapidly. It's not fast enough, and they're falling behind Slades carefully planned schedule. There can be no more delays, Richard should already--

“Richard?” Richard _should_ be in his room, peacefully sleeping, waiting for Slade to come in and bring him to breakfast. Maybe… it was rare, but two or three days out of the near two months he'd been there, Richard had woken early, and had gone to breakfast before Slade had a chance to get him. 

But something, a heavy sense of dread low in his stomach, how his hands twitch until he retreats to his room, arms himself with his both gun and katana; tells him that's not the case. The air is heavy, pressing against his lungs with more weight than logically possible. And its silent, too silent. Wintergreen should be making at least _some_ noise in the kitchen, and yet… 

The last door opens soundlessly, the lair already on lockdown. Only his voice and prints are can open the myriad of doors within the secure building. 

Something's burning, the acrid scent is thick and smoke hangs high in the corners of the room. Meat based, its-- 

It's just the sausage Will was cooking. The burning meat smell isn't connected to screams, but his stomach still twists violently, and he engages the filtration system in his mask. Still. He knows the dream that will haunt him tonight, scowling and reaching over to turn off the burner. So preoccupied with the nauseating smell, Slade doesn't _see_ until his foot already hits Wills side. Then he goes deadly still, silent, every atom held to the strictest measure of control he possesses. Whoever dare touch his oldest friend…

Rage, barely soothed by the steady pulse in his friends neck, easily rises and consumes Slades entire being. He could control it, rein in the fire and blink the red bloodthirsty tint away from his vision, but he won't. He will not leave an inch of the haunt unsearched, and when the intruder is found…

They'd be lucky to have time to wish to god they never breached Deathstroke's most secret, safest lair. 

  


Slade moves with the deadly grace of a hunting leopard, laying Will gently in a chair at the table. Not the best, but better than the cold tile floor. Now to find Richard. 

His heart isn't beating fast, is slow and cold in his chest, through sheer will. He breathes deeply, evenly, recycled and scrubbed air with an odd, artificial taste. He will not feel, he will not fail. Panic, at the corners of his mind, memories, pain, _fear,_ howls and begs to be felt. He refuses. Not now. Not yet. Later, when his-- when his Richard and Will are safe, then he will allow the demons nipping at his heels loose. When those two are safe, he shall lock himself into his room and release, will shake and shiver and gasp for air. He will relive his nightmare, come out and continue his life.

Later.

Not now.


	13. The League

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin contacts the Justice League. Slade is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the bottom note for more specific warnings but please consider your mental health before reading this chapter.   
> Slades actions are _not okay_   
>  I mean... even more so than the usual kidnapping/beating shtick he has going on

Despite Slade’s best efforts, some parts leak through. Far away banging, _someone_ attempting to gain entrance to the lair, turns gunfire sharp, the cool metal stairway grows leaves, the air is far more humid than he ever allows. The urgency to _find Richard_ \-- why can't he find Richard!?-- turns to the need to get _back_ to the base, to _warn_ everyone of the coming danger. Panic, persistent as his will to ignore it, perhaps more so, flickers between the dual visions. He can't deem which is real, even the door briefly feels like a broadleaf, in a jungle he _knows_ has not seen for decades.

Then the world rights for a moment, the darkened workroom clear and empty. Mostly empty. 

There's a single figure, a single pair of lungs breathing raggedy, a fear quickened heart, fingers desperately pounding away at Slades own computer. 

Richard!

Relief, cold water in an arid desert, briefly breaks through the reddish haze that had slipped over his vision. Richard, healthy and safe, not dead, not hurt, not--

Slade stops cold, narrowing his eye at the boy who had finally realized his audience. The boy, who was not allowed by Slades computer under any circumstance. Slades computer, the only one in the lair with a connection to the internet. Suddenly, the violent pounding going on high above makes a lot more sense. Rage, just chased off by relief, violently washes over Slade in a bloody minded wave. He is more than furious, righteous wrath blazing molten metal in every mutated, enhanced cell of his body. 

Before he quite realizes it, before he can think twice, Richard is on the ground. On the ground, shocked silent, though his arm is at an entirely unnatural angle. Crystal, wide blue eyes, blink in delayed shock, delayed pain. Then, the tears start. The tiny, clear drops only pour gasoline on the wildfire blazing in Slades chest. It's an expanding force, pressing away sense and what few morals he deems worthy of keeping.

“You _stupid boy!_ What did you _do!?_ ” Far, far above, there's metal protesting, breaking, bending and allowing entry. That will not be allowed. As much as Slade longs to teach the boy a lesson he'll never forget, it's not the time. “Follow me! And if you dont--" 

The growl, the danger emanating from his single eye should have convinced Richard to follow silently. If he even needed convincing, a broken arm should be enough of an incentive to just behave already.

“It's Batman and the Justice League. They--" Robin breaks off for a moment, a shudder rolling down his spine. Slade is… Slade is more terrifying than anything he's come across up to this point. His arm, it hurts, but it's almost a far-away hurt, unimportant when compared to the pounding in his ears convincing him he's as good as dead. A dead little bird, if he doesn't manage to just _hold on_ until Batman can save him. Batman… 

Robin had to stay strong. He couldn't break, not now. Not in the way Batman obviously thinks he has: it took ten precious minutes to convince the man he wasn't trying to lure Batman into an ambush, and still, instead of a solo grab and run mission, Bruce brings the entire Justice League! Robin knows, from the menace in Slade’s eye, and the way his arm is aching in a way that suggest more than bruising, that he's going to pay for it. Several times over. In several painful ways. Still, it's so _so_ tempting to give in, to look away and follow Slade. He has to swallow hard, breathe harder and straighten his spine to remind himself just who he is, what he is. He is Robin: a hero. A madman, a criminal like Slade, may scare him… but he cannot give into that fear. He is stronger than that. He is able to stand against that, to stand against _Slade!_ No matter what! It's enough to fuel his defiance for a little longer, though a part of him, that he'll never admit to, regrets ever contacting Batman over, say, Superman. 

“They came to rescue me. I am not yours Slade. And i never will be.” Robin finishes his sentence proudly, standing tall on the cold metal grating, chin lifted in defiance. On his back, tight and comforting in its familiarity, is his uniform. It's missing key pieces: gloves, boots, belt, mask; but the remainder is comfortingly weighted against his back. In this he looks like Robin, masked vigilante, and so he feels more like Robin. And Robin, Robin can face down men three or four times his size, can fight and take down criminals all across Jump City. In fact, he feels ashamed of his reactions until this point. It's a slow, creeping kind of feeling, embarrassment and denial at how weak he was. 

Not again. 

Because Robin is not Richard. Richard, is… a civvie, soft and weak. He pushed down that part of him long ago and Slade has only kept him under his thumb so tightly because Robin was thrown by the name, by how childishly Slade treated him! It has nothing to do with the lingering longing to be held by the man, how most of the time there's a tiny, glimmer of safety to be found in the man aura, the glimpses of softness, near-kindness, that was displayed towards his younger mindset.

“Richard… you are trying my patience.” Of all the times to revert to this foolish, futile defiance! The very edges of his control, never the strongest to begin with, are slick in his mental grasp. He is so close to the edge, to losing it entirely, and if that happens-- if the rabid, snarling feelings in his chest slip their leash… he may not be able to stop himself from killing the blasted boy! “Follow me, we will deal with this lapse of judgement in another safehouse.”

It rankles him, to abandon this place. It's the closest to a home he's ever known in nine long years, but Will is here. If they hurt Will… Richard already has much to answer for, as far as the aged butler is concerned, maybe more than his young body can handle.

But, the stupid, idiotic boy is shaking his head, holding his broken arm close to his chest. A fine sheen of sweat is making wild hair press flatly to his forehead. Before, before this would remind Slade of his own children. His anger may have been eased by the comparison, but now, sounds of intruders nearing every second they sit and argue; all he sees is weakness. Pathetic weakness. Something to be found and crushed under his heel until that proud spirit bows to Slades command.

“No. Slade, I am going home.” Firmly, Robin shakes his head. Reckless, careless abandon flies in his chest. His heart is high above its station, beating madly in his too-dry mouth while his stomach slips to the soles of his bare feet. And yet he stays strong, keeps his head high and imagines fire spitting between his teeth. He entirely unsurprised when his backtalk, his defiance earns him another almighty slap, struggling to stand. Not to fight back, there's even less of a chance of winning than normal, but because he may be beaten-- literally in this case-- but nothing Slade can say or do will break his spirit. Robin's loyalty belongs to justice, to the right path. So long as Slade stands on the wrong path, Robin will never bow to him. 

When he attempts to support his weight on his hands however, both fold under him with the shooting agony that says yeah, both have some sort of break in there somewhere. And, not fading, not quite, both sport a matching set of livid red handprints. Slade _meant_ to break his arms. Had no problem in inflicting this much pain…

Something in Robin shivers, shrinks away from the man standing coolly above him.

“You're lucky it wasn't your legs. Get up. And follow me.” Slades voice is as harsh and cold as Robin had ever heard it. There's never a lot of emotion in his tone, but it's never been like this. Fury so cold it kills anything it touches. Fury that, despite his determination, makes Robin flinch back when Slade strides a single step closer.

“I-I won't!” The sounds from above are coming closer. There's not enough time to deal with this! It's going to have to wait, until he can close his eyes and see something besides humid jungles, besides that awful rusty metal room-- Face contorted in an awful snarl, Slade lunges towards the boy, just as the hidden door on the far side of the room bursts open. Open in the wrong direction, edges melted from the still-glowing eyes of the Kryptonian, hovering scant inches above the floor. 

“Release the boy, Deathstroke!” He sounds like Apple pie and justice. Like someone who has never had their metal tested, shaped with an uncaring hand and no thought about breaking a soul to find a weapon they wrought. Contempt shows clear in his voice at the hero, grabbing Richard, his apprentice, by the collar of his uniform and hauling the boy to his side. Just in time, as a heavy weighted net nearly pins the red clothed figure. 

“Batman!” Exactly what he was afraid of. Richard sounds so helpless, so needy, so relieved to see the leather-clad man Slade wouldn't be surprised if he's at least part way down in his headspace. No. _No!_ That's _Slades_ role. The past weeks… he's enjoyed the shy little boy, clingy as he may be. This intruder, imposter, doesn't get to steal that away from Slade. 

The Bat, however, ignores Richard, staring steadily at Slade instead. Under the black kohl, under the pointed ears, electric blue eyes accuse Slade. So unlike Richards… Richard's, they're warm, playful. Even when he's afraid, those eyes sparkle and hold so much life. Life Bruce Wayne has stripped callously from his own. Anything there, any brightness or emotion is faux, fake, a calculated act. Slade, at least, never puts on an act for the masses. He is who is he, however that may present itself on each day. 

“You cannot win, Deathstroke. Let Robin go.” And Batman still isn't looking at the boy! Slade feels his eye narrow, all the world sharpening to the threat in front of him, of the scared-quick breath of Richard pressed tight to his side, the hidden exits, the quickest way to escape. Fury and fear are the worst combinations, but he can make it work, letting the adrenaline fill the hollow inside his chest. 

Everything slows, sticky and soft around the edges, and it blurs. Blurs as Slade snatches Richard up into his arms, darting away from the assembled heros, blurs even further as he slams the door shut to the stairs, until Will is thrown over his shoulder, a fear-silent Richard under his right arm, and the squealing of tires ensure the heros are left far behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Slade is having a PTSD flash back, where at some points he is seeing and reliving trauma from his past. This leads him to being even more violent than he normally is, and when Richard stands up to him, Slade breaks two of his bones.  
> Please understand I am not condoning this in any form in real life and if you are ever in an unsafe situation, please get help.


	14. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new safehouse. Slade is more than a little unhinged in his fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So, this is almost twice as long as i normally post... however, it really would not be fair to leave you guys in the middle of this hellbeast of a chapter for longer than absolutely needed.   
> Buckle up and ensure you're in an alright headspace for this part okay? Warnings on bottom

Robin doesn't dare make a sound. Slade is… Slade is _terrifying._ He thought he understood what it felt like to be weak, to be some madman's _prey_. He was wrong. And for once, he has no trouble admitting it as loudly as anyone would ask. Slade is… Robin was foolish to even think the League would have a chance. The fight, down in the metal room, lasted all of two minutes, and it was clear Slade wasn't fully present, heavy breathing and the faint trembling in the arms gripping Robin's shoulders. He may not have even _realized_ how the League resisted, despite his armor bent and torn in multiple places. Someone like that. Focusing all his rage, all of that anger, on him… Robin wants to hide. He's the only mouse in a concrete box, nowhere to run, nowhere to flee. 

Only years driving with Batman around dangerously twisting Gotham alleys keep his stomach where it should be. Slade is whipping around corners and is on two wheels as often as he is four. The force is throwing both him and the unconscious butler around like ragdolls, little shocks of pain each time Robin instinctively attempts to brace himself with his arms. 

Robin didn't really mean to knock the old man out… truly. He had snuck out, so late at night its early morning, after a sleepless night. He couldn't reconcile it. How he, a hero, was spending more and more time _snuggling_ up to the worst criminal he's encountered solo. That was how Stockholm syndrome started, right? Sympathizing with the enemy, attempting to make them more human, to let your mind _want_ to please them; all in order to prevent further harm. He had to get out, before he didn't want to. But Wintergreen had already been up, making some kind of roast. He had turned, had seen Robin sneaking towards the one open computer and threatened to call Slade, unless Robin turned right back around and went to his room. Robin had to do something… and that something ended up being striking the old man with a solid haymaker, and watching him crumple. 

There was no time, after that.

He ran halfway down the stairs, grabbing at the metal railing and twisting over the bars to flip a few times, landing with a teeth jarring thud. Still. It was easy enough to shake off, cursing that his skills are even the slightest bit rusty, and run past the living room, into the one housing Slades throne. 

Thanks to the ceaseless grinding, with a lot of wasted time and effort, Robin forced his way past the lines of code. It was inelegant, crude, and if it had been during his lessons, he'd be nursing a new pain as he was instructed to try again. Thankfully, this wasn't his training. And he was in, accessing a well hidden internet site meant specifically for when the baby birds fell from Batman’s nest. Ironically, the page was an article for just that: advice for helping birds when they are lost and fallen. A heavily coded message, remembered more easily than breathing, and Batman himself opens a chat link between the two. 

Batman…

In the car, Robin flinches minutely. That went way worse than he dared imagine. Slade had dealt with the League so easily… and Batman wouldn't even look at him. Didn't even check to see if Robin was okay. Logically, he knows why, he knows that taking eyes off an enemy like Deathstroke is paramount to laying your own throat against his blades, but still. It stung. To be so easily dismissed, after being forced to jump through all those hoops to even get Batman there, to be ignored when he requested it be just Batman, a more of hit and run than the full frontal assault it turned into… all of it hurt more than he wanted to admit. It was a pain that throbbed in tandem with the pain in his arms. Steady, in tune with his heart. 

“Slade…?” Barely daring to say it out loud, Robin still flinches as the mans fury seems to rise again, though the only move he makes is to flick his eye into the mirror, staring at Robin in the glass.“You… You're injured. Superman--"

“Clark Kent hardly poses a threat to me.” Slades voice was terrifying, less so than the arm he holds up: the armored fabric burned away, but the skin underneath was smooth and pale. Blood was still there, surrounding what should be a fairly serious wound, stark copper rust against the creamy white of his forearm; but the actual wound was gone. His face must betray some level of the horrified disbelief Robin feels, because Slade chuckles. It's a dark sound, the sound of monsters under the bed, scaring children. “Regretting your decision yet, little bird? I've told you before. There is no escape for you. Your only choices are to obey and thrive, or disobey and suffer your fate. And there will be a reckoning for your little stunt back there, trust me.” 

Becoming one with the seat behind him doesn't work, but Robin tries anyway. Behind his teeth, he whines, a high pitched sound he has no hope of denying or controlling. Thankfully, Slade doesn't see it fit to further torment him, releasing another one of those horrid chuckles and turning his attention back to the road. 

Robin's never been one to think of higher powers, of religion and gods, but he takes a moment to thank whatever is out there for the brief reprieve.

  
  


The brief reprieve that _does not_ last long enough. Before he can think of a way away from Slade- not that his previous plan was working very well- they're in another warehouse, another gear filled room, another ‘sitting room’ another lair. Besides minor choices, different color scheme, dust gathered on every surface, it's the exact same. _Everything_ is the exact same. Robin has to gulp, Slades hand is hard and heavy on the nape of his neck, dragging him along. Wintergreen, tucked with something nearing gentleness over Slade’s opposite shoulder, has stirred but not woken fully yet. Honestly not sure if he had hit the old man harder than intended, the small signs of life were all that were keeping Robin alive, he's sure of it. 

As it is, the elderly butler is placed on the couch. It's with a careful hand that Slade arranges his limbs, ensuring there will be no undue pain or stiffness due to his positioning. It doesn't take long, but is unsettling. Like Alfred, and maybe all old men, Robin wouldn't know, there was a quiet energy in those aged bones. A never ending sense of movement, though they are entirely still. To see the man without it is unsettling, and he shifts. Just a little, a tiny rock of his feet to move him the slightest bit away from the proof of violence he caused. Someone must has rearranged his organs while he wasn't looking, because his heart was an odd shaped lump in his throat and his stomach was somewhere around his knees. No amount of nervous swallowing would convince his heart to move back down, and his stomach was so dread heavy nothing but a heavy duty crane could move it now. Terror, primal and raw like a child seeing tigerskin in the jungle, creeps in his sluggish veins. He needs to _run_ he needs to _hide_. There is a predator behind him, one full of rage and danger. One after him.

Slade abruptly straightens, seeing the tiniest movements from the boy by his side. Not willingly by his side, of course. The fine shivers vibrating the boys neck in his grasp is proof enough of that. Good. The fool should be afraid of what he had nearly done. Slade allows him a few more moments to stew in how screwed Richard was before turning. Blue eyes stare nervously back up at him, repentance already shining along their edges. That's just too bad. A darkness is writhing inside Slade’s chest, a dark pleasure at the child's too obvious fear. It's an empty maw, wide open with formless teeth, descending on what little sanity the mercenary possesses. 

“Follow me, Richard.” How pathetic. The boy nearly falls flat on his face, once Slade’s questionable support is released. The darkness, thick and cloying in the mask, claws its way up his throat, expels itself in acid like globs of sound. Of laughter. It drips across his teeth, leaves a bitter aftertaste, bloody lemon clinging to his tongue, the interior of his cheeks. He can't stop it, doesn't want to. All but the smallest part of him rejoices in the feral anger licking along his insides.

That smallest part, it wants to stop this, wants to go and calm down, sees not only prey but _child_. It's easy to shut that down, to bind it deep within his mind. This, after all, is better than the shaking. Better than past pain flickering red hot over his skin. Better than remembering. 

The boy, stupidly obedient now, follows. Back into the work room. Each of his safehouses has the same layout, same luxuries and comforts, no matter where he may be his lair is identical to those previous to it. Which is a good thing. It's easier to leave the boy standing in the middle of the room, to call two of his robots to come grab the child. Their grip is tight, well muscled flesh surrendering to superior force and letting deep furrows form around the uncaring metal fingers. There's nowhere to escape, and he clearly knows that: raven hair flipping wildly as the boy pulls hard in one direction, then another.

“S-Slade!” Something has to be wrong. Slade has never been gentle… but normally he's not… whatever this is. It's like someone else is in control, like Slade is just a puppet for a dark force. Robins arms already hurt from the merciless grip thanks to two robots that grabbed him from nowhere. They're strong too, no weak points he can easily hit from his position. The struggle helps though, keeps fear at bay, let's him focus on Slade.

Slade who is turning, pulling up his Kevlar sleeves, flexing his hands. The leather creaks under the strain. It… it has to be some kind of trick. Robin has seen Slade for… how long has it even been? But in all that time, those gloves had never protested action like that. It has to be… unless Slade is actually straining the material, like he never had to do before. Screw butterflies, wild horses are rearing in his stomach, and he's feeling a little wild himself, throwing himself recklessly against the metal restrains. It doesn't help. Slade is coming closer, laughing again in that completely awful tone. 

“Now, now, birdie. Stay still. I am planning a quite through little lesson for you. It wouldn't do for you to get away, hence our little helpers.” Carelessly, he gestures to the two orange and black figures holding Richard steady. Malice is crammed into every word, abandoning subtly as he flexes again. His armor is well taken care of, it takes quite a bit of force to entice the creaking that drains the blood from Richard's face as surely as his little throat being cut. Amusing. He lets himself smile, mouth stretching into a wolf like gash of red and white before he rushes. The feeling of skin under his knuckles, the way Richard's face blurs into others-- it's a brutal satisfaction. It's bloody and calming, protection and anger and fear turning adrenaline thicker than the blood dripping down to the bare metal flooring. How it feels... giving skin under his fists, knees, feet, refusing to give the slightest mercy of unconsciousness, the blood that spills. All of it... merely sharpens his appetite for more.

  


Robin flinches, groans. He's… a mess. Even without seeing, he knows that. His face is hot, swollen, and his eyes are swollen to bare slits. He can't open them further, can feel blood matting his hair down firmly to his scalp. 

Everything hurts, every joint screaming in bitter denial. Even his back, which Slade had been strangely reluctant to hit before today, has taken its fair share. He can feel the bruises, explosions of red dancing up and down his spine. His teeth are bloodstained, there's a puddle of it under his face. His knees have long since gone out, the robots the only thing keeping his broken body upright. And he is broken, the two broken bones he received earlier have been added to, at least a rib, a leg unless that just a deep bruise. Unlikely, though, bruises… feel different. This pain was radiating from the inside out.

Either way, it's the worst beating he's ever endured.

A minor miracle, though, he is starting to lose time. His mind, curling in on itself like a frightened kitten. Never much, it's too dangerous, but darkness reaches up, takes one or two hits from him. He hurts badly enough those few seconds of blackness are near blissful. They, and they alone, give him the slightest amount of comfort that, yes, he will endure.

His throat, already so sore, still attempts to let him scream. It doesn't work, he can barely breathe through it anymore, and he doesn't even care as he whimpers. Brokenly, pathetically, it doesn't matter. He is broken, is pathetic. He can't free himself, reduced to begging. 

“S-slade!” Robin forces the words, too weak to lift his head but trying anyway. It hurts… it hurts! He's falling without knowing it, slipping younger because he _just can't handle it_ anymore. “P-pl-please! No more! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” 

It doesn't work. The hits keep coming, Slade hasn't said anything before they started this, and Robin begs again, louder. More frantically. Anything to get through to the man tormenting him.

“Slade! No, no more! Please!” Self loathing, normally drowning him for being so weak, is no match for the pain. It's brushed away, and Robin continues to plead, forcing his head up in a dizzying wave of blood and pain, to stare up at the monster.

Because, he is. Oh he is. Slade is nothing but an orange and black monster, drawing back his fist for another round on Robin's poor, beaten face. Robin, who crumples like wet paper, saline tears stinging the wounds on his face like crazy.

“No! ‘Lade! Please, pease, nooooo!” Salt in boiling water, his near-adult resolve melts, old ice cream abandoned in the hot sun. Much as he hates to do it, to expose this side of himself when Slade is so, so angry, he can't hold it back anymore. And… Slade has gone to great pains to ensure he was never struck in this mindset, had been nothing but that odd brisk-gentleness. For a moment, it looks like it's working. Slade hesitates, pulls his fist back half an inch.

Then, all Robin can hear is a meaty crack, jawbone igniting like dry tinder to gasoline fueled fire, and his world unceremoniously turns the inky black of a crows wings.

  
  


Slade gradually comes back to himself. It's a long process, fighting off red tinted senses, but eventually he's still. Panting, harshly, yes. But still. There's pain in his knuckles, worrying if the damage is bad enough the serum hasn't healed it yet, and copper in the air. Copper blood. He can deal with that later, peeling off his gloves to wince at the bloody mess his knuckles have become. Will won't be--

William!

Memory slams into him with all the delicacy of a freight train. Wintergreen, invasion, Richard.

Richard…

The copper scent infusing the air was not, as he assumed, his own, taken as he bled out rage and terror on whatever room he locked himself into. No, that. That would be too easy. There's an uncharacteristic weight in his throat as he turns, mind racing through red tinted memories, caught on how young the bird was when he _kept striking_. He kept striking! Even when Richard was small. Horror, an unfamiliar feeling, presses his lungs. It's hard to catch a full breath, not quite daring to turn and see the mess of a child.

Slade has never been one to take the easy route, however, and eventually turns sharply. There he was, more a mass of blood than clear skin, still held impeccably upright between two robots Slade has sicced on him. 

The sight is horrible, and were he a lesser man, Slade wouldn't be able to force his gaze to rove over the prone body. As it was, he was already compiling a mighty list of supplies necessary to better the birds chance at survival. He was not one to kid himself, a fully restrained boy against all of Slade’s rage? All of Slades power? Survival would be a miracle under normal circumstances. And, while circumstances were far from normal, even the serum will be hard pressed to entirely heal the young man. But he was going to survive. If Slade had to knock down the door to the afterlife himself, the little bird will recover.

He doesn't dare think of what would happen if he's wrong. This is one situation where being wrong is not only unacceptable, it's impossible. There will not be another child's death on his shoulders.

Obediently, the robots yield their burden to Slades arms after a softly spoken word. Said burden doesn't stir, even when Slade carefully walks up the stairs, into the brightly lit kitchen. A light scent of chocolate lingers, a heavy mug at his place at the table and Will nowhere to be found. It's no surprise, if he was injured as badly as Slade suspected. Richard was used to criminals, an innocent old man couldn't take the kind of force Robin would have dished out. 

He doesn't linger, making a mental note in install the same palm scanners and security as the other lair, they had been a recent addition and this lair had not yet been updated. All the way to Richard’s new room, carefully depositing the bundle onto the bed, stepping away to retrieve the first aid kit and a large steaming bowl of water, clean rag resting against the side. 

Stubbornly, methodically, he refuses to focus too deeply on the wounds he's cleaning, bandaging. It's bad, though, most of the boys body wrapped under white gauze or plaster casting. His kit is near depleted before he stops, boxers the only thing covering Richard's dignity, and pauses. His back took a few solid hits, but the young man had been abundantly clear how he felt about others seeing his back, much less touching it. If Slade were a decent person, he'd wait, ask to tend to the boy when he was aware. But Slade was not a decent person. And, while its currently overcome with disbelief and horror, he is still very angry at what the boy tried to do.

If Richard wanted respect of his boundaries, he should not have invited the justice league into Slade’s lair. It's decided then. Still there's hesitation as he rolls the young hero. At first, the impressionist painting of bruises is all Slade can focus on. But, under that…

Scars. Old injuries, some faded and pale white, others vivid red and ropey. Unconsciously, Slades fingers trace the path of one of the latter, the skin an odd duality under the pad of his finger, rough scar tissue so close to flawless patches. What little of those there are. Something like awe is rising in Slades chest, next to something very much like rage. Tiny little scars, puckered circles, shiney red. Those are burns, cigarette burns. And the longest ones, stretching angrily from hip to shoulder… lash marks. Who could…? A child!

Slade needs to pause then, look to the side, breathe slowly and deeply. If he lets go again… who will care for the bird? It's only by the skin of his teeth does he manage to swallow the rage, release his hands from the curl of fists, forces himself to look once more.

Among the same stomach clenching marks, there's the assorted knife marks he had assumed were there, a few close calls with a bullet… road rash on nearly every other inch… there's an entire history on the muscled skin he's examining. A history far too long for a child of his age. A history far too long for _anyone._ Richard is young now, how old was he when these were made? Who was callous enough to hurt an even younger version of his apprentice?

Before long, there's nothing left to bandage. Nothing to do for long healed wounds, though when Slade figures out who dared to torture a child to this point. Once he finds out… No force on earth will protect one who would hurt someone so small, so young. 

For now, the boy will rest, and Slade… Slade can administer the serum and go attempt to rest. Attempt, he already knows what the night holds for him.

Already, his hands shake as they peel the rest of his armor off. His breath is shakier than can be easily explained, and the cool air of his private bathroom coaxes a shiver to rattle his teeth. 

A swift shower, both too cold and too warm, and he roughly dries his hair. The silver-white locks are still water heavy, pulled into a loose bun to prevent plucky strands attempting to strangle him in the middle of the night. There's nothing to do but get it over with, but still… Slade hesitates, but there is nothing for it. The longer he stays up, puts the reckoning off, the worse it will be. Smart enough to realize that, it still takes a few extra moments to actually climb onto the massive bed, the silk cool whispers against his sensitive skin, and drop heavily to the center. While the memory foam pillow cradles his head, Slade is already dropping off to sleep, too used to his sleep being short and unpredictable to waste any potential rest. It's the sleep of a soldier, desperately clawed together whenever it presents itself, and light enough to be woken by the fluttering of moth wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slade beats the ever loving heck out of Richard. It's not nice and not pretty.   
> Slades pretty deep into a disassociative state, but I will repeat: none of this is okay for Slade to do, okay?


	15. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade... remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback of torture and ogher trauma in this one, as well as period appropriate racial slurs.  
> Message me if you want specific details, and just remember that Slade was in the army during this time, and armies are rarely if ever shining examples of fact and respect to the "enemy"
> 
> Ho Tinh is a Vietnamese myth, of a fox spirit that appears as a lovely female, to lure men to her den and their death.  
> I learned while researching this, that Vietnam was an odd mix of superstituion, myth, and organized religion. Very interesting, I highly suggest looking into it.

_This place is familiar. More familiar than his own hands. The subject of countless nighttime wanderings. Now, nearly 40 years after the last time his eyes saw it, it's likely far different. But not here, not in this hellish dreamscape. There's the huge old tree the boots always attempt to climb. Everyone who's been there more than a month, and that's when Slade actually attempts to remember their name, their face; already know it's pointless. The jungle is too humid, the bark is too smooth and slick for a proper handhold, and besides, it's too much wasted energy to try and get to the top anymore. The boots will learn, everyone does, they'll become boonierats soon enough. There's the mess hall, the latrines. Bunkers, full of tears and hopeless alcoholism, the infirmary, stinking of death and hopelessness. In his hand, gloved because the mosquitos are awful by this wall, holds a lit cigarette._

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_Someone, somewhere, would scold him, probably. Damaging the body they provided him with, the tiny light being seen, daring to bring death and destruction down on the camp. As if any of that matters. He's on watch, letting scouts enter the camp after a through identity check. Anyone without the proper identification would be left outside the frankly pathetic walls until morning. Walls, that Slade had crossed often enough, could have crossed before they went and turned him into a bloody guinea pig. Took his battered and bruised body, trapped his soul between one world and the next, dragged him back into the living realm without a question of hus wants. So what if he had vital information? There was no excuse to put him through that, none as to why they let him hear the agonized screaming that was his fellow test subjects injected with the serum. Over and over, they tested them, listened to their screams and recorded the decibels they broke in their pain. Only Slade was left, 49 other bodies tossed carelessly to the side while he grew stronger, grew larger, faster. He healed now, fatal on anyone else was a day of rest for him, and every one of his senses were heightened to the point of pain if he focused too closely on it._

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_He told them all of it, recorded what he could do now. All except one major change. There was a bloodthirsty ache in his chest now. One that asked for murder and triumph no matter the cost. It didn't matter if the blood came from friends or foe, months in a lab taught there was no difference between the two anymore. And, though it turned his stomach, he took over gaining information from… less than forthcoming spies the army captured. Even with the darkness spreading through his soul like a disease, the grisly scenes he creates makes stomaching the plain army food hard._

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_“Transported from one hell to another…” Wryly, he laughs, nodding as one of the younger scouts creep into the road to camp._

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_“Chao! Laughing at your own jokes, old man?” Cheerfully, the kid asks. He's all blue eyes, black hair and a cheeky grin. New, he still has some hope of escaping._

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_“Nah, kid.” Slade wishes he could had even a semblance of control, this kid deserved his name, deserved to be remembered even in a nightmare. But his lines were already set, stubbing out his cigarette and holding out a hand for the kids papers. Said kid easily passes them over, and in the twenty odd seconds the exchange happens, chaos breaks._

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_Woods previously noisy in a natural, animal life way boil with strange faces, limbs clutching makeshift weapons alongside more traditional guns. They're overtaken in moments. Slade, better than he was, not as good as he will be, fights off the first dozen before he's overwhelmed. Despite his gun and, when they're too close, fists and K-bar they manage to sneak around him. At his back, it's all too easy for the butt of a gun to slam into the back of his head. Not enough to knock him out instantly, but he's dazed, disorganized. He can't fight the hard kick to the back of his knee, can't keep that knee from folding like cheap paper. He goes down, hard._

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_The boot goes down too, tunnel rats swarming into the camp on all sides. Elephant grass is sharp against the side of his face, dirt already stinging the small cuts that the plant makes. A few zipperheads stay back, bind Slades and the kids wrists behind their backs, jerk them up roughly, pull them inexorably forward. Slade, the current Slade, 40 years in the future, would know how to break free. He would never have been captured. But, Slade of the past was slow, stupid, unaware of the dangers just around the corner. He marches when rough hands shove at his shoulders, blindly follows as screams rend the air behind him._

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_That ends up being one of his biggest regrets._

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_It doesn't take long for the slant eyes to figure out about his healing. An hour? Two? It doesn't matter, they see it. They call him names in their odd, native language. Since then, Slade has mastered that tongue and many others besides. He now knows the debate that lashes around his blinded and bound form._

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“He heals! He's God-touched!” One says, hand flitting nervously over a bruise should lie, scared to further harm the strange man and, perhaps, bring the wrath of God down on their heads.

Slade, unable to know the man may be his biggest defender, flinches back, into harsher hands. These grip without mercy.

_“He is Ho Tinh! No natural man can heal that quickly! And he is fair as a woman!” The second voice pulls hard at Slades already long hair, drawing a long hissing breath from the man's lips. It wasn't regulation, but Slade had stopped caring for that some time ago._

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_The argument, continuing between the two soldiers, is interrupted by a third voice. It echoes slightly, in the small cell they pulled Slade into when his injuries healed and the others did not._

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_“What is the meaning of this?” Later, Slade will know the soft voice brings nothing but pain. Then, however, he merely cursed the blindfold. Escaping from two enemies would be hard. Three or more? Most would say impossible._

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_Most aren't Slade Wilson._

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_Eventually, after seeming hours of arguments, Slade is left alone with final voice that had joined._

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_“Hello there, Mr….?” English. He spoke English? Much as he tries to ignore it, the familiar language loosens his taunt shoulders slightly. Not much, not even noticeably, but Slade feels it in the marrow of his bones. The slight easing of of tension, the instinctive relief he can't fight off._

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_However. Relief doesn't mean he's stupid, and Slade glares, willing the blindfold away so he could at least properly see who is in the room._

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_“Who are you?” Harsh as he can make his voice, the back handed slap is just as hard, snapping his head to the side. Pain, brief but all the more intense for its brevity. The serum heals him just as quickly, and as the heat fades from his cheek, the man utters a soft oath in his native language._

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_“So it's true…” And there's touching again, gentle on the cheek that was just slapped. “You heal. We're going to find the limits of that… and then… we're going to_ break _them.”_

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_Eventually, they return him to the other room, with the remains of his camp in it. Most are dead, or dying, and the rest are already badly injured-- tortured. For information or for sport, Slade can't really tell at this point, leaning heavily against the wall with an exhausted groan. They've been experimenting with food and water intake, and their effect on how quickly or completely he heals. Today had been fire._

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_The smell was still in his nose, his own flesh, like hot dogs left too long on the grill. He remembers it, clearly, mind numbing agony of his skin roasting, splitting, charring. It hurt, and the hurt still lingers. Not very much, and without actual burns to attend to, but he's profoundly grateful when two familiar forms settle themselves nearby with near silent groans of pain._

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_“Still with us, old man?” It's the young one, the puppy like kid that Slade was talking to when they were overrun at base camp. Still so upbeat. Slade manages a weak smile, tilting his head back until the cool brick wall takes the majority of its weight. A gentle hand presses against his forehead, and Slade cracks his eyes open to look at his other companion. A young William Randolph Wintergreen, looking worse for the wear but still looking at Slade with such concern.“Fire?” Slade nods, letting his eyes slip shut again. He's so, so tired. If only… “Figured. We can smell it.” They get a near silent grunt, all knowing that's the best he can do at the moment._

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_“Must have ran ya hard.” That's an understatement. The past week has been less science and more torture for the hell of it. Slade now know what it's like to feel his limbs be slowly mutilated, has had his stomach ripped messily open and saw his own organs fall to the ground. He had heard the soft plop as they slid free of his skin, saw them steaming on the ground, has endured more than any man should have to. And yet, he bears no physical mark of it. The disgusting, horrid things they did to him. The injustice served brutally to both his mind and body. And not a single scar. His skin remained smooth and flawless._

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_He hates it._

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_What he's been through. That should leave something behind. Something more than worsening memories, more than hands that shake when the door opens. Even his throat, screamed raw, took only minutes until he could scream out again._

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_Beside him, the kid swear softly, face paling an alarming degree before he can help it._

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_“Kid? John?” Slade, pushing aside the remains of his own misery, sits up straight and looks over sharply._

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_“Nothing. It's fine. Just, sat wrong. Back doesn't like that.” He resists their guiding hands, but not for long, slumping weakly forward with another bitten off whine. Laid on the filthy floor, the mess that was once a strong, solid back clings to the rough shirts they've been given. Mostly blood, Slade breathes deeply, searching for any sign of infection that is the greatest killer here._

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_“Pretty sure there's nothing you back would like, kid. Pick a fight with a cheesegrater?” It's a bad joke, awful really, but John laughs anyway._

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_“Close enough. Just that big ugly guard. He was--" John has to stop, take a breath that's more dust than air, but continues. “Disrespecting Jimmy's body. He was just a kid. Didn't deserve it. So I went after him, and he decided I needed to learn respect. Ten lashes.”_

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_Slade winces. Jimmy. He just passed. The youngest, 16, he lied to come over. He lied. And is now dead._

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“ _We're all kids.”_

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_“Yeah, well, he was more so than any of us. I'm 18, you guys are 20, right? Shoulda been one of us, he had--" John cuts himself off, gritting his teeth at the cautious pulling Slade is doing to the back of his shirt, lifting it slightly._

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_“Had people to go back to. We know. You get his letter?” Letter is a kind term, it's whatever scrap of fabric, paper, wrapper, anything they could get their hands on, written in anything they could find. Blood, stubs of pencils, anything able to trace a few letters down. Just in case. Just in case it was a one way ticket over that great ocean. Slade didn't bother to write one._

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_He had no one to send it to anyway._

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_The worst part is coming, was just ahead. Slade tries to wake up, acknowledges he's dreaming, that it's just a nightmare and he'll wake up any second._

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_It never happens. Once he's started, he has to relive the entire series of events._

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_Fire. Fire and gunfire. He hears it, thunderously loud in his ears. The sharp “rap a pap pap" of shells being fired randomly onto the cell. It's chaos, and it's more instinct than anything else that has him lunging for John, for Will. They fall, Slade taking gunshots to his back, and it hurts. A sharp, burning pain where they enter, lines of acid digging deep into his muscles. Unlike most people, he actually has a frame of reference to make that comparison, swearing under his breath as though he could distract from the pain._

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_“He's in here, should we take him?”_

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_“Even he won't heal from a bullet to the skull. Shoot him and lets get out. The Americans are coming.” Underneath Slades-- diminished from the time in captivity but still impressive-- bulk, John's eyes widen. Slade has the briefest flash of slate grey in the black pool of his pupils, and a much closer gunshot sounds. Before the sound is fully registered, Slade knows no more._

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Forty years past that day, Slade jerks upright. The silken sheets cling to his sweat slicked skin, too close. Throwing them near violently away, for a long moment, the only sound daring to break the oppressive silence is his own panting, lungs desperately attempting to provide air for what they're certain will be a fight for his life. 

“No- no threat. No danger.” That day had been the first time he ‘died’. Died and found his soul firmly rejected in the ether. He couldn't pass over, couldn't reach the Light. But neither could he, when repelled from a just reward, gain entry to the place he secretly feared. In a way, it sounded familiar, but… even the cesspit Slade ultimately died in couldnt hold a candle to the terrified screams clawing the air. Not forward, not back. Neither up nor down, for all those concepts held no meaning here, he was stuck. A flat, featureless plain stretching in all directions. Nothing moved, nothing spoke. There was nothing. And yet, it wasn't horrid. Wasn't… pleasant, but wasn't horrid. A space for waiting, the lobby of a tasteful doctors clinic. Waiting for what though? 

Having his-- consciousness, his essence, thrown back into his body was answer enough. Waiting for his body to heal enough to house him.

That was the first time he died. Not the last, and each time, he's entirely unable to resist the urge to check both exits, see if it is his time yet. Exhausted, and entirely unwilling to lie back down to suffer the dream again, Slade stands. The wooden floor is cold against his feet, and he suppresses a shiver, laying his metal mask over his face-- just in case before he steps out of the room.

It's… strange, to not have the matrid of obstacles to reach the kitchen. He keeps half reaching out, searching for something that is not there. It shouldn't be as novel a sensation as it is, not with all he's lost. But it is novel. Novel and unsettling. 

“You should be asleep, Will.” Of course the man isn't safely asleep, instead mucking around the kitchen at three am. That's what all sane people do after being knocked out and forcibly moved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting today, I had trouble with formatting


	16. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will says (part of) his piece, Robin awakens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all <3   
> No warning for this one, that hard patch is over

“As should you.” He did have a point. Slade nods once, sitting heavily at the table. Knowing the boy is in his room, and will be there for the foreseeable future, he thinks nothing of lifting the heavy metal from his face, setting it to the side. Plus, the chilling aura around Will quite clearly says he will not tolerate Slade using the mask to deflect, like he often does.

“You know why I'm not.” It's easier, to let Will remember, than open that can of worms. Idly, gently, fingers more used to guns and swords swipe lazily over his face, catching the fine white goatee and tugging it in an impossible rhythm only half remembered. 

“I know. Why else would I be making coffee this early. I need to talk to you.” Under the warm exasperation, rarely heard steel warns Slade not to ignore his companion.

“About…?” 

“You know very well what about. The child, whom you beat unconscious yesterday.” Normally, Slade appreciates his friends tendency to refrain from softening his words. Today however, he winces away from the frankly delivered statement. 

“Will…” He stops, letting the silence build again, head hanging the slightest amount. Just enough to give him an unimpeded view of the tables swirling grain. If he were more imaginative, he’d compare them to tiny dancers, elegantly twisting together, then away. As it is, he only finds them a handy focus, keeping his gaze away from the angry butler. 

“Do not try to ‘Will’ me! You told me, when you brought him in--”

“I know!” Sudden and violent as a spring tornado, Slade stands, shoving his coffee away in the whirlwind of movement. “You think I don't remember my promise!?” 

He's angry, can feel his hands clench, nails digging viciously into his palms. But to stand accused of breaking his word, his honor, by his oldest friend… there were times all Slade had was his word, when his own code of honor prevented a monster forming with his face.

“I know you remember. That's why I don't understand why that _child_ is laid up in his bed looking seconds from death!” one elderly hand stabs the air in the direction in question.

“He's going to be fine!”

“Because of the serum! Which was meant for missions, when there was no alternative!” Even aged like he is, it's at times like this Slade can still see the army captain Will grew to be. All sharp, commanding both obedience and respect. Respect Slade was more than happy to give, both in the army and after, but he hadn't heard this unyielding tone in _years._

“I am well aware! Do you think--” He breaks off, ears straining. Under the fight, which was gaining in both ferocity and volume, a small sound. Pained, and coming from Richard's room. “He's awake.” 

Will, about to argue for a second more, sighs and gestures for the other man to leave. “This is not over. You will not beat that boy again. Training… I must allow. But this… I've stood by your side through all these years, Slade. Do not test this limit.” With that, Will turned his back, icy silence strangling any inclination Slade still had to talk. 

“I know, Will. I'm… sorry.” All too aware of the guilt gnawing restlessly at his gut, Slade awkwardly leaves the room. He hesitates a brief moment, masked once more, if he should go replace his armor. In any other situation, he would. It separates them, underlines his power, superiority, but… the child has had the lesson firmly beaten into his head today. Perhaps… a softer approach was warranted. Soft sweatpants and an equally threadbare tee-shirt was a far cry from his usual armor. And, if he was truthful-- a feat he aimed for, at least with himself-- the armor wasn't what he needed either. It was all hard planes, and Slade already felt drained from the restless sleep.

“Richard.” Knocking once, and entering right after, Slade is entirely unsurprised to see Will had redone most of the boys bandages. They were tighter now, neater against the uncovered chest. “I heard you were awake. No, do not attempt to talk. Your jaw is broken, move too much and we will have to wire it shut, okay?” 

Richard didn't attempt to speak again, good, but that may have been due to the fact he was shrinking away. Each step Slade took resulted in a clear, if painful looking, flinch from the bed, the swelling around his eyes lowered just enough Slade can see wide, frantic pupils; barely any blue left around the edges. Little…? Or just scared?

Probably a little bit of both, and Slade modulates his voice to the velvety smoothness he'd been using on the younger mindset, holding up his bare hands in a clear ‘I'm not here to hurt you’ motion.

“Little bird? You know me. It's ‘Lade, remember?” A spark of recognition flashes deep in those eyes, lips parting instinctively around the name. Tellingly, though, his jaw does not move. Could he be in more pain than Slade thought? Swiftly, because a damaged apprentice was less useful than a whole and healthy one-- and that's _all_ \-- Slade takes one hasty step forward. Only to freeze when, instead of throwing himself bodily towards the offer of comfort like usual, Richard jerks back with a muffled shout of fear and denial. 

Watching that little face, contorted in fear, then pain… watching Richard flinch away. Something Slade never wished to happen.

“Little bird, Richard…?” Cautious now, warned the boy was frightened of him, Slade further gentles his voice, crossing the small amount of space between himself and the bed. Maybe it was just the hour, maybe just the exhaustion like lead lining his bones, maybe it was even his softest, most forgiving clothing. Whatever the reason, the air in the spacey room was charged with an unidentifiable energy. Something fragile, ethereal, not quite of this world. Only because everything felt so surreal does Slade cautiously pull the chair out from under the desk, settling it close to the boys bedside. 

“Richard…” 

Robin flinches again, despite his effort not to. He's… scared. This is _wrong_. This was supposed to be a safe place, where fear couldn't touch. But it was, and it was all the worse for it. He hurt, particularly in his arms, but every inch of skin felt stretched too thin for the throbbing of the trapped blood in his bruises.And the one scaring him-- the one who hurt him-- is sitting right next to him, inhuman mask perhaps more terrifying than the knowledge of what the man has done.

His jaw hurts too badly to speak, so he had to whine, trying to squirm away. Almost anything to remove him from the man's side.

“Richard.” It can't be Slade, that voice is way too soft, and he actually can hear a clear note of… something uncomfortably close to regret in it. In fact, it doesn't quite look like Slade either. Nowhere in sight was the impeccably dressed man he's been accustomed to seeing. This Slade, the one quietly observing, single eye clear of anything resembling maliciousness, was dressed in… sleeping clothes? Sweatpants nearly worn through, and a plain white tee shirt that was so old, the hems had all unraveled and the actual fabric see through where it's pulled tight across his chest. It's entirely confusing for the boy, knowing his eyes are wide and pleading. He just doesn't understand, the man in front of him was so incongruent to Slade. Both the sternly gentle one from before and the monster that put him in so, so much pain.”Who gave you those scars on your back?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slade.... is an idiot


	17. Ultimatum

Slade's voice is still soft, but there's an undercurrent of rage, of anger so hot Robin tries to flinch away again. The movement, however, sets off a chain of knife sharp pain throughout his body. Strangely, it doesn't hurt as much as it should. It's not possible to be a vigilante and not know the pain of broken bones, of bruises and overused muscles, but they don't hurt as sharply as a freshly battered body should. Either he's been asleep for far longer than he's comfortable with… or Slade gave him something to speed the process… Robins not sure which is the preferable option, looking away from the orange and yellow mask uncomfortably. 

Everything feels muddled, looking through inch thick glass to an already bewildering scene. He's somewhere between Big and small, trapped with both sides reluctant to face the man. Eventually, in the span of moments, the elder side wins. It's not fair, not right to let his more sensitive half deal with Slade. Never again, not if he can help it.

“You _will_ tell me, Apprentice. Now--” Slade leans over, opens a drawer on the desk to withdraw a pen and small pad of paper. “or later. I'd suggest now, because I will not stop asking.” Robin isn't surprised Slade sees the change as he ages back up, voice hardening in response. The hands that brought him to the edge of insanity now press the pen and paper into his unresisting hands, adjusting his fingers in the light cast until they hold the pen, regardless of the fact Robin doesn't so much as twitch to help. And Slade is scarily observant, so he's ignoring what normally would earn a slap at the very least. Bitterly, Robin acknowledges the fact that Slade is only ignoring his disrespect because he's already so broken, weak. He's no longer even an annoyance to be kept in line. The thought is more painful than it should be.

Resolutely, Robin mentally pulls himself straighter. It doesn't matter. He won't do as Slade demands, he _won't!_ After all he dared go against Slade already, and despite the fear clogging his throat, he alive. Alive and bandaged and in less pain than he should be. False comfort as it is, it's still enough for Robin to square his shoulders, eyes sparking in their defiance.

After yesterday, his lapse of judgement, Slade was prepared to give the boy some leeway, some amount of patience Slade rarely exercised. But now, watching the boy stubbornly look away, jaw clenched to a surely painful tightness; the familiar defiance lights his ire. 

“Are you really so dense? Boy, haven't I gotten it through you thick skull yet that I am to be obeyed?” This was not how this was supposed to go, none of it was what he imagined, going into the room with the boy. Slade grit his teeth, trying and failing to push down the maelstrom of irritation he was currently feeling. Everything was too close to the surface, too raw against his already sensitive nerves. Too loud, too sharp, too bright. It's near excruciating, unable to dull or ignore his heightened senses. 

‘My scars are my own story.’ At first, the fact Richard is writing doesn't register, not until he angles the notebook for Slade to read, defiance and rightful fear fighting for dominance in his posture. While stupid, infuriating, the words give Slade something solid to focus on, picking up every flaw in the paper, the faint sheen from the oils on Richard's skin where it pressed against the paper. 

“They may be your story, but you are _my_ book and as such you will tell me who gave you those scars.” 

Whatever else Slade had, Robin has to reluctantly admit he had a remarkable ability to twist the spoken word. Because that, that was almost convincing. It may have worked, actually, if not for one small detail Robin instinctively bristled under. 

‘I am not _yours!_ ’ The mechanical lead breaks under the force of his vehemence, stabbing the paper to underline the possessive word. Batman thought he owned Robin too, thought the wind and the sky itself would obey his ordinance to keep the bird grounded. No. Ever since his parents died, Robin belong to no one and nothing, free as… well, free as a bird.

“Aren't you though? I am, after all, the one who clothes you. Feeds you. Trains you. Cares for you.” Fury licks up Robin's spine, making a face as he writes again.

‘Not by choice! And what good care you're taking of me!’ he would have written more, but Slade is pulling the notebook away and it already hurt to hold the stupid thing. Still, Robin glowers as much as his injured jaw will tolerate.

“I think that's quite enough communication for you today. Now that I think of it, this may actually turn out to be beneficial for you. Better control of your temper, a lesson in holding your tongue. Stay put, I'm getting your breakfast.” Richard clearly wants to protest, but since when has Slade cared about a little something like that? He's up, out of the door and down the hallway before the brat tries anything foolish. Well, more foolish. The nerve, laying back on a throne of pillows and snapping at Slade like a rabid dog. It had been a near thing, to go in there and not only see the little bird flinch away, but hold his temper when Richard starting going at it. It was worse than when Richard first arrived in the lair, all anger and sharp lines. Or maybe, Slade had just grown accustomed to the smiling laughing side of the boy. 

Either way, knowing both that Richard was well deserving a small attitude and Will-- who may not _actually_ leave, but who did have many creative punishments-- would be angry; it had been extremely difficult to get back outside the door without laying a hand against the boy. And, once safely in the hallway, Slade allows himself one moment of weakness: slamming his hand back into the wall, frustration parting his lips for an animalistic growl to leak into the otherwise silent hallway. It takes a few forceful, calming breaths before he's able to stand, unclench his fists and walk back into the kitchen.

Anger is still turning his eye steely when he gets there, however, and Will doesn't say a single word, pulling the fridge open and grabbing one of the few bottles of beer Slade kept on stock. It doesn't do much for him, not anymore, but the taste brings back memories and that's enough. He flicks the top off, taking a long pull of the chilled alcohol and sitting heavily into the recently vacated table. 

  


“How did I do this? Before?” It's only when the dark bottle is half empty does Slade speak, gaze focused on the table top with determined nonchalance. “Never lost my temper that badly with Grant.” 

It's the first time in nine long years either dared say that name, and the air around them grows heavier, darker, at the mention of Slade's oldest; and the most troublesome of the brood. Will is entirely unsure what was on Slades mind, if he even meant to make the comment, but he wasn't one to hesitate.

“Never had such a scare with Grant.” Simply, it was the truth. Slade also had trust, and affection between himself and Grant. Grant had, most of the time, wanted to both impress and please his father. Slade hums in reply, taking another long drought of the beer. “Did you talk to him?”

Its likely dangerous to press, after something clearly upset the man, but Will does so anyway.

“He had an attitude, it was all i could to stop myself from slapping him.” Darkly, Slade mutters, running his fingers roughly through his name of white hair. Hair that little Richard had been so fascinated by, playing with whatever strands Slade had allowed to flow over the boys hands. He had always been careful, not to pull or injure Slade. The old familiar ache under his sternum doesn't abate, even when he rubs at it soothingly. He almost wishes it was the serum, malfunctioning for the first time, but it ebbs and flows with the image of Richard flinching away from him. His face… innocent and terrified. 

There's been times in his life Slade wasn't proud of himself, of course there was, but he rarely felt like such a complete and utter monster.

“Don't you dare, Slade.” He's not even surprised by Will's censure anymore. Richard is under everyone’s skin, stuck there like a burr, no matter how resistant Slade is to admitting that fact.

“What am I supposed to do, then!? He's already fighting me.” If he, perhaps, throws the empty bottle into the nearby trash with more force than strictly necessary neither feel like mentioning it. 

“Of course he is, Slade. You've hardly been patient with him. He's feeling insecure about your intentions, if you're going to fly off the handle again. You went too--”

“I know I went too far! You don't have to tell me that!” With the ease of long practice, Will continues, speaking as though Slade never interrupted.

“You went too far, and now he doesn't know where he stands. It's going to be hard coming back from that.” His voice is papery, quiet in the kitchen. “He needs consistency, he's had precious little of it until this point in his life.”

It's the indeterminate time between too late and too early and yet neither of the two. Either way, it's not the the time for an old man to be awake. Every one of the years he's seen presses heavily on his psyche as Will levers himself to standing. There's a pain deeper than muscle and sinew drawing his face into a deep frown. Everything had been going so well too. Richard had been mellowing out, Slade had been gentling his approach. This was a set back, one they likely couldn't afford. Just before he left the room, one hand lightly on the door frame as Slade pulled open another beer, Will shakes his head.

“Go take care of the boy, Slade.” He almost leaves, foot hovering in the air for a moment before he places it back on the floor, near silently. “However, if you-- in anger, not in training-- hit him again, I will be the one hitting you.”

He truly does leave then, the empty hallway taunting Slade nearly as much as his friends words. Will… he never uttered an empty threat. And while the elderly man couldn't actually injure him, Slade is aware that it is something he doesn’t wish to happen. WIll can make a person miserable in many ways, and there was almost always a solid reasoning behind his meddling orders. Maybe… just Maybe, he had a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Will so much. And i agree with him. Both boys need to put some effort in.   
> Also, i didnt realize this when i started writing this, but Slade is so much... more human in this. Far more than i intended at first. But... i like it?


	18. Revalations

Of course, considering it possible the old man had a point means absolutely nothing in the face of recalcitrant teenager. He won't look at Slade, closes his eyes tightly, curled into the tightest ball he can, and faint shivers rolling over the tight muscles in his shoulders. The scars there seem to almost dance under the motions, little waves dancing across the pale flesh. 

“Richard…” It’s the third time Slade called the boys name, and still he would not stir. It’s clear enough he’s terrified still, but the defiance boils Slade's blood in his veins. “You cannot heal if you do not eat. And you cannot eat like you want to right now. Stop this nonsense.”

In his hand, plastic creaking dangerously, was an adult sized baby bottle. The old green sports bottle had been abandoned in the old lair, and Slade _had_ threatened the bird with an actual baby’s bottle at some point. The fact that it was an easy task for his robots was just a bonus. It only took moments for the bottle to be finished, and another to fill it with a meal replacement shake, warmed and watered down to allow easier drinking through the small holes on the end of the silicone. Richard wants nothing to do with it, however, face paling when Slade entered and refusing to look up after. The very last thereads of Slade’s sanity are being tested, stretched far past allowable limits. When he reaches out a hand however, to not-so-gently uncurl the boy himself, two things stop him. Will’s promise, and the scars on the boys back. They still ignite his fury, but Slade can breathe through it, can close his eye briefly and try. The boy, he reminds himself, is useless to him like this. He cannot shape unyielding rock, and as he is now Richard would obviously risk another punishment instead of being obedient. Slade has to be the first to soften himself…

Soften himself?

It's hard to resist the urge to snort. Slade knows who he is. There’s no changing for him. The time for change, for growth, was long ago, and Slade had ruined it then just as surely as he’s ruining it now. He has been fire baked in the depths of a personal hell, shaped and jagged where parts of himself have broken, rough around more than just the edges. It is surely impossible, to try and turn back, to attempt gentleness.

Still… he can attempt. A challenge after all, is one of the few things he enjoys anymore. Moments ago, he would have claimed it impossible for Richard to tense further, but once Slade climbs onto the bed, the boy makes a gallant attempt. It can’t feel good, and Richard backs up his theory with a breath drawn quickly between clenched teeth. 

“I only wish to help you now, Richard. I give you my word.” The words bubble up from deep inside him, a hidden depth Slade was unaware he still had access to. He rarely had to assure anyone of his true intentions, after all. Either someone trusted him, or they did not. He still did his job, he still got paid. The state of trust mattered little. But now, here, it may matter more than he wished. And it has been damaged, by his own hasty actions. His lack of control. 

His word? Robin can’t stop his gaze from snapping up, locking with Slade’s. Slade’s. That name could be easily used as a swear, if he had been able to move his jaw without tendrils of pain digging all throughout his skull. Even so, it positively drips loathing and anger safely in his mind, eyes flashing dangerously when Slade boldly settles onto his bed. Jerk acts likes he owns the place, sitting closely enough the warmth of his body coils around Robin like a living thing in its own right. It promises relief to his aching body, if he would lean into it. He wants to, even if he’s completely consumed with hatred for the man next him, but knows he can’t. It’s just another trick, just another attempt to make him obey Slades every wish.

If only it didn't work so well.

Slade is one long line of heat all against his right side, even though there is still a few scant inches between them. He’s sitting, quietly, confidently, one hand laying limply on the bedspread while the other still loosely hold the bottle. The _bottle_ , like Robin can’t even handle eating the softest of foods right now. That may be true, but he doesn’t want to be reminded of it, or of the days he had happily leaned into Slade, to accept a drink in a very similar manner. However, he hurts. His entire body aches, and being so twisted up in himself is only making it worse. Slade isn’t moving, isn’t speaking. It has to be enough to let himself uncurl. He doesn’t really have a choice, his muscles are already unwillingly unwinding. It doesn’t feel much better than before, not at first, and when he is relaxed, his limbs protest with a series of painful cramps.

Because, of course they do. Low in his chest, he grunts, attempting to ride out the pain without grinding his teeth. It’s an old, bad habit, but one he consistently finds impossible to break. 

“Cramps?” It’s the first word Slade had spoken in minutes and Robin nods without thinking about it, shooting a sharp glare when the older man's hands settle delicately on the arm closest to him. “I thought you may, tensing an injured limb only further blocks the blood flow it needs to heal.” 

It’s a simple lesson, one that Batman had taught Robin many times. Basic first aid, really. Humming once, still not quite looking at him, Slade’s fingers start to glide over what little skin isn’t covered in bandages. Firm enough to not tickle, but not harsh enough to further any bruises. Inside, Robin is a riot of emotions, made only worse by his inability to talk. If he could talk, if he could really give the man a piece of his mind… He’d likely end up worse than he is right now, in all honesty. 

“Your fighting style would be good for eskrima. Have you ever experimented?” Slade, still looking dead ahead while gently manipulating the faint tingling Robin can still feel in that limb, asks conversationally. The man who beat the snot out of him should not be allowed to be this gentle. HIs hands, where they’re now moving to his other arm, are perfectly controlled, thin fingers capped with callouses that can only come from hard work. Hard, murderous work, but hard work all the same. Robin.. Robin can almost respect that. Can almost respect the fact that clearly this man has never let his guard down, has never had time or need to worry about if his skin was soft and inviting enough to pass for rich man’s ward. Would it be worth it, though? To have targets painted on his back? There were moments, when a different Slade shone through, when he almost fit the worn thin sleep clothes and messy hair. When Robin's captor seemed more human than not. He wished he could call it an impossible change, a trick of his mind, but no. There was something deeper going on here, something that tickled at the instincts for a good case he’s been using less and less as he stayed in Jump City. Batman would be disappointed, but Alfred would merely insist that he get started already. There is always, after all, another chance to figure out the question that's been haunting him: Who is Slade? 

And just why is he so determined to have Robin as an apprentice, where there are probably more tractable students waiting on such a skilled tutor? 

Robin jerks, flinching back with the sudden horrible realization he was actually curious. He’d allowed himself to become distracted with inane questions about the psychopath currently getting real friendly with his arms! 

Slade, however, doesn’t seem to mind as Robin jerks himself away, resting his hands easily in his lap. 

“Think about it.With your speed and agility, it’d be a compliment to your the style you already have, any twig can be an impromptu weapon…” Slade allows the thought to fall first flat, then silent, daring a glance at the boy from the corner of his eye. He’s listening, at least, startling blue eyes focusing on the bed sheet he was laying on. A start, at least. Slowly, like he was reaching for a bomb instead of a young teenager’s arm, he gathers up Richard’s right arm again. Good… the boy lets him, focusing instead as Slade starts to slowly explain the basic premises behind eskrima, and what benefits it would have to the younger. It’s nothing he hasn’t considered many times before, but Richard seemed steadier under the drone of a voice, seemed to enjoy the touching. It’d been a risk, after how he flinched away earlier, but even in the very beginning, Richard always eased by contact.

The first day, Slade grips the boys neck, and Richard goes still, quiet. Compliant. Nothing changed in that regard, just… amplified while the boy was in his childish mindset. Carefully, distracting Richard with throw-away tips and tricks to watch for when he starts training with eskrima, Slade pulls away the bandages. Anger, at the littler bird and his own disproportionate display, still flickers inside his veins but he forces it down, chains it. He is in control. Not his rage. Not Richard. He is. And he can still salvage this, if he plays his cards very, very carefully. 

The superficial cuts under the bandages have already healed. Good. The bruises will take another few hours, but they're healing well enough to let the majority stay uncovered. The broken bones, however, are healing much slower than Slade would like, frowning as he manipulates the flesh around the still-vivid handprints. That'll be something to keep an eye on.

Richard is enthralled as Slade expands his explanation into other areas of martial arts, particularly ones the younger wasn't likely to have encountered. He doesn't even protest his other arm being examined. Which while a pleasant surprise, is vaguely worrying. It wasn't like Richard, and he still is quiet as Slade wraps both arms back in tightly fitting ACE bandages. They'll be tight enough to keep the limb still until its fully healed. 

“Your back?” Richard freezes, muscles that were already tense turning stone like under Slade’s careful fingertips. It has to hurt, and Richard hisses as though to confirm Slade’s suspicion. He doesn’t scold the boy though, staying still as Richard glares out from under long midnight lashes. “I need to see, Richard, I already saw your scars when I was tending to you back earlier.” 

The notebook, and Richard’s angry words from before, are grasped by hands that are… slightly less encumbered than earlier. Slade doesn’t bother warning him to behave, releasing the arm still in his grip to the boys control again. 

‘I don’t want you to see again.’ The writing pauses, pencil lightly scratching over the paper. ‘I dont want anyone to see. Ever.’

“That may be so.” Only when the pencil’s lead completely leaves the page will Slade speak. It’s a miracle, how open Richard is being. Slade doesn’t believe in miracles. Its his effort, of not snapping at the boy, of chaining himself down into the false softness against his rising hackles, that seems to be working. Working better than he hoped, if he’s actually opening up. Maybe… 

It… it doesn’t hurt, not as badly, if Slade reaches for the past. If he brushes past his own warnings and the way his mind flinches away from the expected pain, he can remember… He sees his oldest, a blemish of some sort-- he never cared to remember what exactly it was-- and can hear his own voice. Softer, perhaps. Kinder, around the edges, how his voice curls around the words. The same words pass his lips now, but… deadened. A marr against the memory of his treasured son. “However, you are the only one who cares. No one else cares if your skin is not flawless, it’s part of growing, of being a young man. Take care of yourself and hold your head high.” 

He… hadn’t meant to let that out. Instantly, he wishes he never said such a thing. Because Richard is looking up at him, face clearing but still broken and bruised, and eyes still holding so much anger yet the faintest hint of nauseating gratefulness shining through. No. The kid has to stop looking at him like that… Slade refuses to meet the boy’s eyes, staring flatly at the far wall. He will not leave, but he does not need to subject himself to those eyes, fitting better on a puppy than a still growing boy. 

‘You were a father, weren’t you?’ The question isn’t entirely unexpected, but it still is highly unpleasant, a sniper’s stillness settling over the masked man. For all his many faults, Richard was trained by a halfway decent detective after all, and-- even if he never personally felt a father’s affection-- he had been around enough to hear the similarities. 

“If your stories are your own, then mine are as well. Back.” His temper flares, the flash of pain breaking his tenuous control over his voice. It’s a growl, an order. Richard obeys, maybe not intentionally, but the sudden jump at Slade’s tone is close enough that Slade takes it. One hand, bare and he’s regretting the lack of distance his armor puts between them, presses against a too-thin shoulder, bracing as he checks and discards the majority of the bandages. “You still have a few deep bruises here, but the serum is taking care of the worst.” 

His tone is brisk, downright chilly, but his fingers show nothing but a lingering care as they lightly flit over subtly muscled back. Nothing dangerous, at least not anymore, and it’s entirely unconscious when he pats Richard’s shoulder twice, leaning him back against the headboard. 

“Your jaw still hurts, correct?” For all it’s framed as a question, it’s not. Robin knows that, even if Slade hadn’t been reaching for the bottle he brought in at the start of this. 

Slade…

Who was he? 

Everytime Robin thought he knew, every time he determinedly said he didn't want to know, Slade threw a wrench that upended Robin’s entire world. 

Now, he was sounding… like a father. There was no other way to describe it. It was the exact same tone commissioner Gordon always used on Babs. Somewhat gentle, a little rough. Guiding, if he had to confine the tangle to a single word. Robin had suspected it, the first day Slade changed from his armor. The day Slade pressed the now familiar sports bottle to his lips and ‘encouraged' him to drink. 

Slades hands had been firm without betraying the hard anger that had made Robin jump to obey. As much as he resisted admitting it, having Slade snap like that jolted him from the frightening reality that Slade may well have been a better father than Batman. Even thinking it feels wrong, false. A betrayal.

“Let's not fight on this. Richard. You still have a few more hours before your jaw heals, and the serum will not continue to work as well if you do not have some form of subsistence. You cannot yet hold a cup, this is the best solution.” Was it though? Robin wasn't sure. Yes, he was hungry, yes, Slades words were correct, as far as his jaw pain forbidding any kind of chewing or talking. But… to accept any kind of help from Slade, after what happened? And that's not even considering how close he would have to get to the man. 

He doesn't want to.

But there's not much choice. Slade obviously knows it too, with the exaggerated patient act. If there was a chance of getting out of it, Slade wouldn’t allow this. He wouldn’t allow Robin to take his time, consider it from every possible angle. It's useless, and Robin lets the tension drain from his muscles is a clear, if silent, surrender. Surrender only this one time. Next time, he’ll fight. Next time he will not give in.

This time, Robin sighs when Slade eases the bottle between his teeth, lips instinctively closing tightly around the silicone. It’s different than the sports bottle, the shape and texture so completely foreign it takes a minute to adjust to the overwhelming fullness in his mouth. Not enough to stretch his jaw, but it pins his tongue down, and a few curious pushes reveal that, yeah, it’s not going anywhere. While uncomfortable, it’s not unbearable, and Slade isn’t talking, isn’t teasing with a hint of slicing sarcasm. It doesn’t help, there’s nothing that would really help how fast his pulse is hammering in his veins, or the breakout of the cold sweat along his temples, but it doesn’t make it worse. It doesn’t make it worse and that’s going to have to do for now, closing his eyes as tightly as he can against the sight of the inhuman mask, against the warmth that adjusts until he’s curled up against the man’s side, one large arm supporting his back at the most comfortable angle permitted. 

It would be a lie to deny Robin feels the longing to be small, to forget everything that had happened in the past twenty four awful hours. He resists, though, mostly because the draw of vulnerability was tempered by the memory of Slades hands grasping the vullernenabablity, twisting and ruining it just because he could. 

That’s what he did with everything, wasn’t it? Took and took and twisted, until everything that was good lay in broken pieces and there was only the worst parts left. He did that with Robin too. Robin was doing good, he had a family of sorts, had a city to protect and cherish. He had even some half formed hopes of reuniting with his mentor, now that he was able to stand on an even ground with the masked vigilante. Then Slade came. Slade, who broke so many rules Robin couldn’t let it slide. Who taunted and teased and left the most interesting puzzles, who praised as well as scolded. Robin had given Slade a vulnerability and Slade used it to bring him here: friendless, alone, forced to acknowledge they had a great many similarities. 

Maybe he’d be better served by wondering who _he_ was, what Robin had done to warrant such attention from such a powerful foe. But that level of introspection invited too many options for answers he doesn’t want to hear. Instead, Robin mentally conjugates verbs between French, Spanish and Tamaran. It’s difficult, which is exactly what he needs, the challenge just enough to let him pretend this isn’t happening, or at least isn’t happening to him. 

By the time the bottle’s empty, even that is starting to fail. 

It’s not the pain, though each pull of liquid from the bottle sends an ache throughout his entire skull, it’s not even from his heart has barely slowed it’s headlong rush in his chest. 

Slade has… Its incomprehensible. It shouldn’t be happening. It’s illogical, another test. Something. Because, even if the man holding him captive is human, isn’t some robot or alien or something, he’s still Slade. And Slade has no weaknesses, Robin has learned that the hard way. Slade doesn’t need what basic humans do, sees to smirk at the very idea of reasonable limits. That doesn’t change the fact that the weight against his side is growing steadily heavier. The breaths behind the mask are growing deeper, the vaguest hint of roughness on the inhale. 

Slade’s asleep. 

Slade is _sleeping on him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't fall asleep on someone who's hurt. Its a bad idea, i promise


	19. Talking

His heart is a staccato track inside his ribs. This man is dangerous, and Robin was the place he chose to take a nap? There was absolutely nothing in the situation to laugh about, but Robin almost feels like doing it anyway. Hysterical, ill advised laughter. It’d hurt his ribs, be a rude awakening for the sleeping man, and probably end up with Robin being put right back into those bandages Slade took off. Still… it’s be a release to the tension curling in springlike readiness under his skin. Every moment winds him tighter, prepares him. Prepares him for what though? He’s not exactly sure, not when his entire focus is spent tracking every minute movement from Slade. He doesn't dare move, barely dares to breathe. The bottle, with Slade going sleep slack, slowly drops. Empty, it rests in the scant amount of space on the bed between them, as hollow as he feels. 

Maybe it's the serum, and he need to know what that even is, as soon as he can speak; but as the minutes slip by without movement, his eyes grow heavier. No matter how he resists, how his eyelids flickers open each time they close, eventually there's no escaping the need to sleep. Gracelessly, uneasily, he falls. 

It's unusual for him to wake this slowly. Slade’s aware of that, in the same syrupy slow way he's aware of the presence to his left. He's unused to having a bedmate, but directly contradictory to his expected response, it feels… peaceful. Calm. The rhythm, deep and even, of the other's breathing is soothing. Pleasant. If he wasn't accustomed to waking at the same time everyday, he'd allow himself a few more minutes. As it was, the position his neck had fallen into wasn't comfortable, and the body next to his was tense, too tense to be comfortable even sleeping. 

Before opening his eye, griminancing at how his lashes drag across the metal interior of his mask, Slade is already acknowledging who was beside him. Richard. Had he truly been that exhausted that the presence of the young man had been enough to lure him back to sleep? 

True, it had happened often enough with his own children, but that was a long time ago. It held no power here, in this time. He's gone far longer with far less sleep. It had no explanation, and the thought rankles.

Before Richard, everything made sense. There was an order to his life. Go on jobs, get paid, make plans, execute them flawlessly, play with the titans and various other baby heros, to show them what actually lay ahead should the continually risk their life and limb in the senseless hunt for “justice”.

Now everything was skewed an inch to the left, familiar and foreign in an unforgivable mess. Even the boys reactions refuse to fall within the expected tolerances. Last night, while the boy was drinking, he didn't age down. He should have, he always did before, with the old sports bottle. And yet, there was no softening in his eyes, there was no sneaking relaxation easing the tension from his limbs. Richard had stayed angry, stayed coiled and furious. Even now, asleep, the tiny motion of Slade’s shifting weight is enough to jerk the boy wide awake. 

Those eyes, lively and crystal clear, are no longer clouded by pain. The fire within is unhindered, only growing stronger as fear and anger clearly war for dominance. He really is too transparent with his emotions, that's going to have to be a priority. 

Not today though. Today, let him be as transparent as he wishes, it's far more amusing for Slade anyway.

“Good morning, Richard.” Pleasantly, Slade great, noting with some amount of contentment that Richard doesn't wince as his jaw clenched in automatic anger. Good, that looks about healed then.

“Slade!” His voice is nothing more than an angry hiss, but Robin doesn't care. Let Slade hear how angry he is, let him know how much Robin hated his guts! Predictably, Slade just laughs, rising up slightly higher on the bed to look down at him. 

“You're energetic this morning. Feeling better, perhaps?” He sounds more amused than angry, but Robin still flinches, hatred for both himself and Slade sharpening his voice well past safe levels.

“What did you give me? Why am I healing so fast?!” The words are hurled bullet fast from his lips, rattling into the empty air but utterly failing to pierce Slades armor. 

“Watch your tone!” Just as sudden, just as sharp, Slade retaliates. And unlike Robin's, his verbal bullets hit their mark; Robin freezing under the sudden roar of sound. Holy anger… “I gave you a modified healing serum, its drastically reduced your wounds and pain, has it not?”

That's not the point, but Slade is talking already, sliding away up and away without even the smallest hint of stiffness an entire night in an uncomfortable position should have left him with. It's not fair. He never was that smooth, on the endless stake-outs Batman refused to let end, when morning bled through the night's embrace, and the villains crept back into lairs, and he had to be back in school on a few stolen naps. 

“Your arms should be healed as well, correct?” Reflexively, because now that Slade mentions it, the lack of pain in his body was downright suspicious. He hasn't seen anyone human heal as quickly since Bane. 

“Ye-- That doesn't matter! What was in the serum!?” Fear, sudden and sharp, overwhelms the strange gratitude, the awe, that all of the pain was so easily erased. He didn't quite realize, however, how loud his voice was getting. It bled angry energy into the air until the room, large as it was, can't contain it, slips under the doors thin crack. 

“Watch… Your… Tone…” As his own grows, Slades voice lowers in volume, pulling himself up to his full height to glare down. “In case you have forgotten, you are still in quite a bit of trouble. I don't want to, but I will--” 

“Not do anything to that boy!” Will, standing by the now open door, has his arms crossed sharply, tone thunderous and face a stern mask. A few steps into the room, before either of the two can quite recover from the shock of their argument being so suddenly broken up, and Will points one fingers at Richard sharply. “And you, young man, will never lift a hand in anger to anyone in this household again. Understand? Or else you will be in for an educational trip over my knee.” 

While Richard is still reeling from the frankly delivered remark, a dark flush creeping around the edges of his neck, where the skin was fair; Will shoots a glare over at Slade, promising retribution just as unpleasant, if a little more mature. Still threatening to hit the child? Not while there's a breath left in Will's body.

“In fact, Richard,” The former hero looks up quickly at his name, looking so forlorn and pathetic under the gauze that its highly tempting to let this once incident slide. However Will had, while he never had children of his own, practically raised his siblings pre-war. He'd seen how a firm hand, how rules and boundaries, how a little respect molded a young adult ready to thrive in society. If he didnt correct Richards behavior now, not only was he failing to remind Slade of how to care for a child, he would be partially responsible for whatever misbehavior the boy will pull next. Still, it's hard to shore up his displeasure when Richard looks moments from nervously bolting out of the room, still wounded body or not. “If you were not already taken to task for your behavior yesterday, you would be getting a through taste of my wooden spoon. That was completely unacceptable, you know better than let yourself panic in the middle of a middle mission, and I hope someone has taught you _something_ about not hurting those who are weaker than yourself. There is no excuse for that, and there never will be.” 

Already, Richard’s blush has grown over his cheeks, deepening as Will continued. The weight of Slade’s gaze is heavy with disbelief, eye wide with shocked stillness as Richard… actually began to look repentant, shifting his weight uneasily on the bed. Will doesn't relent, crossing his arms and staring down at the boy. 

Any moment…

“... I'm sorry…” It's almost too quiet to hear, and close to what Will is looking for; but not quite. 

“Speak up, and who are you apologizing to? For what?” Later, when both of the others have gotten to a better place, that may have been a perfectly acceptable apology. For now, Will's willing to push for a more formal answer.

For a moment, it looks like Richards not going to speak again, ducking his head. While hiding his eyes, it also gives an disturbingly clear look at his scarred back. It's, like every other time Will has seen the criss crossing of lines across too young shoulders, like a hot shot of disgust and anger piercing his chest. Slade is already planning on killing whoever dare laid a hand on Richard, it's just… Will would prefer it a lot longer and more painful than Slade would ever allow. While the mercenary killed quickly and cleanly as possible, Will was more pragmatic. If he had one minute with those who hurt Richard…

“Wintergreen--” 

“Mr. Wintergreen.” 

“Mr. Wintergreen…” Accepting Slade’s correction with minimum sulking. That's new. His friends surprise is subtle, a sharp glance in first Will’s then Richard's direction. In return, Will represses a smirk. An old dog still has his new tricks after all. “I'm… sorry. For hitting you. I… didn't actually mean to hurt you, i just needed you out of the way, i needed the computer.” 

Fair enough. 

“Thank you for your apology. Don't do it again, alright?” 

How can this one, old man make him feel like this? Robin can barely force his gaze from the bedspread on his lap. Guilt, unfortunately a familiar burden, pulls his chin to rest against his chest, exposing the overly warm skin at the back of his neck. Against all instinct, all knowledge he was right to fight however he could against the two men, Wintergreen… Wintergreen was making him feel _bad_. A squirming, uncomfortable sensation rising in his chest until there's no more room for his lungs, for his heart or ribs. It’s so much like Alfred, the scolding that still manages some gentle kindness, that it steals his breath quite firmly away from his body. 

What would Alfred say? He'd been the one who first attempted to harness Dick's anger, to direct the mess of a child to the clean release of martial arts, and then taught the now older child how to aim that anger. Who he was never, ever to turn fists and feet on. To that end, it was fairly simple: anyone who couldn't fight back was to be protected. And protected only. In the grey filled world of hero and villain, and those that are neither and yet not civilians, that was a clear line. Alfred would be so disappointed…

There's a brief moment of warmth, a hand lightly pressing against his mess of hair, and then the door opens, Slade and Wintergreen disappearing out into the hallway. Slades quiet command of “stay” wasn't really necessary but Robin doesn't lift his gaze to reply. It's not worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will is kinda running away from me. He was never meant to be this big of a plot line lol


	20. Chapter 20

“Will.” Two seconds. Will would he impressed by Slades restraint, if he wasn't fully aware it took the entirety of those two seconds for the door to fully close, giving them a semblance of privacy. What he is impressed by, and will likely always be impressed by, is Slade’s ability to ask a question without the slightest waver in tone or inflection. 

“He's a child, Slade.” Patiently, Will explains, voice soft.

“I'm aware, and in his younger mindset--” 

“He's _always_ a child, Slade!” How could Slade miss it? Every inch of the boy practically screamed it, from the hint of baby fat still softening his face to the limbs still awkwardly long and lanky. It was harder to see in his uniform, Will would allow that much, but now… it's painfully obvious. The boy wasn't even half past his puberty. “He's a child, who grew up in a billionaire's home. Who lost his parents at far too young an age. Who was raised as more a weapon than a human, Slade. You, of all people, should know how that feels. You tell me, what would you, did you, do to our drill sergeants? And they never laid a hand on you, despite your attitude and disregard of the rules.”

Strong emotion clogs Will’s throat, but doesn't stop his tirade. It had started the day Slade had pushed a traumatized, disassociating child into his arms, when he saw the bruises and where the boy had been tortured. Each time Slade raised a hand or voice to Richard, Will’s anger grew. Tucked into a hard knot, he had resisted saying a word, tried to let the two come to their own understanding. He had, mistakenly, thought Slade would recognize and rectify his mistakes.

Even now, Slade was trying to write off his actions.

“And how will he ever learn to obey me? If i insist on coddling him? This? Isn’t for me, its to ensure he lives past his first time in the field!” Anger, never far below his surface and self control already badly strained, colors Slade's voice as he turns sharply to face his friend. “I've held my temper with him, multiple times! It only makes his attitude worse!” 

Aware, always aware, of how close Richard is and how furiously cold his voice is, Slade attempts to keep it to a whisper. He manages, barely, and breathes heavily, clenching and unclenching his fist. 

“Basic decency is _not_ coddling the child!” Will has no such worries about his volume, allowing his ire to fill the hallway quite clearly. He doesn't stop at Slades hasty hand motion either, crossing his arms over his sharply pressed suit. “I've already told you, be consistent, be clear, and he will _want_ to please you.”

“Will! I--”

“No, Slade. You need to sort out your priorities. Because if you continue, if you break that _child_ , you will never get him back, and the world will be all the lesser for it.” Before Slade can, or before he can even try to, call Will back, the old man is gone. Slade could chase him, find him, but. No. Let the old fool carry on, with his bluster and nonsense. 

Richard will be fine.

  
  


The rest of the day, Slade keeps far from Richards room. Let Will, if he knew so much about child rearing, take care of the brat. The door, connected to pathetic imitation of the computer system left behind, has opened and shut a few times; cameras only revealing Will, apparently spoiling Richard rotten, judging purely by the amount of times the tray has been in and out of that room. 

There's upgrades to this hideout, important and time sensitive materials need to be ordered, yet… Slade keeps finding his gaze on the monitors outside Robins room, both hoping he has enough sense to stay put, and that he attempts to leave. It'd give Slade an excuse to go back, to attempt to talk again with him, but unfortunately it looked like the boy had finally gained enough sense to stay put, though Slade checks several more times.

  
  


It's not long after the older men leave, after the thoroughly confusing conversation he overheard with his ear pressed to the wood, when Wintergreen comes back. He's alone, which is a relief, but is solemn, straight faced. It doesn't mesh with the passionate defence Robin heard earlier, and he frowns, tilting his head curiously. It doesn't hurt, a small miracle, and he's rewarded with a small, wane smile.

“Hello, Richard.”

“Hi…?” 

“How are you feeling? Any lingering sore patches?” Cool, slightly dry hands cup gently around Robin's jaw, moving slowly enough he could easily evade the reaching hands. He doesn't, instead leaning slightly further into those hands as they briskly move over the curves of his face and skull, checking for any pain.

“No. Whatever was in what Slade gave me… it really worked.” There's acid in Slade's name, enough to be startling, but not so startling as the two fingers tapping the crown of his head in reprimand.

“None of that tone now, its alright to be angry, you have every right, but right now you are in his care and as such will offer him respect, even if he doesn't particularly deserve it at the moment. At the very least, it will prevent me from cleaning your blood day in and day out.” It's a scolding, clearly, but… It’s gentle. Soft. Kind? Robin feels himself relax slightly, glancing up at the aged face. There's no malice looking back at him, no anger or rage, just calm understanding. It's so far away from what he's reluctantly grown used to Robin is stymied for a moment, blinking slowly to try and understand.

“You told Slade earlier it's basic decency to…” Words are hard. They don't want to come out, to properly form in his mouth. What was he supposed to say? That it was basic decency to _not_ beat him? That's obvious. It shouldn't feel like a minor revelation. It shouldn't be comforting that Wintergreen also knew exactly what to do to make Robin want to obey him either. But he did. Robin is well aware of the truth. He may act like he's a leader, like he's comfortable being in charge and far above needing others approval; but deep inside he knows. He craves approval, craves validation like a flower craves a sunny patch of soil. If it makes him weak, so be it. He can hide it well enough, can pretend he doesn't need it to get by, but if he was offered it… if his heart started to soak up praise and acknowledgement, he'd be addicted. It'd be near impossible to stop. If he even wanted to.

“That's because it is. Slade may be my oldest friend, child, but sometimes he can be blind. Hurting you, abusing you, is not going to help anyone. I should have seen that earlier, and stopped it before it became this bad, and so I apologize.” Why was he apologizing? Every adult Robin knew pretty much acted as though they never needed to apologize to children-- which is what Slade and Wintergreen clearly saw him as, despite his laundry list of accomplishments and frankly amazing feats-- and on top of that he was in league with Robins kidnapper. It just didn't make sense. 

“If it's not decent, why are you helping him? You see what he's doing to me, why won't you help me escape?” Wintergreen stops, frowning, as his hands slowly slip away from Robin.

“There's more going on than you know, Richard. For now, let's just make sure you're okay, alright?” Thats it? Robin frowns, letting his eyes fall from Wintergreen's. It irritates him, a mystery so close that he won't, or is not allowed, to solve. It doesn't help that, now that he's awake and not hurting, he's bored. Really, really bored. The interior of his mind has been conditioned after weeks of learning from the moment he woke till he was allowed to rest and now the sudden lack… disconcerted him. Sitting still, the warmth of his sheets cooling where Wintergreen pulled them away, and he's jittery. He wants to stand, to do something. 

“Wintergreen…?” Cautiously, now that the elder man was appeased Robin was in working condition and was about to leave, Robin dares to voice his complaint. “I'm bored. Can i come out and… do something? Is there an gymnastic area here, like the last place?” 

“No, Slade had that installed specifically for you. He was not planning on moving that suddenly, or that soon. Many of the upgraded security features had just put in place for your stay with us. As this home does not have those features, I'm afraid you're going to have to stay in your room until Slade or myself are available to keep an eye on you.” The boys face falls, so sudden and completely Will feels a little like he just kicked a puppy. Without the mask, either the cloth one or the one he puts on in the face of Slade, Richard is remarkably expressive. His disappointment is an entire body affair, from his sagging shoulders to how deep blue eyes peek out from midnight lashes, his lip sticking out in a out slight, unconscious pout. While Will had intended to stay away, allow Richard to reflect on his poor behavior, he can't quite seem to find the willpower to do so in the face of childish sadness and gives a few words of comfort before he can stop himself. “I’m going to be quite busy today, to prepare for the contractors, but i will stop in as often as i can. Okay?” 

It must be acceptable, because while Richard doesn't straighten or stop looking like a half drowned kitten, he doesn't get any worse. And, some days, that's all you can ask for with persnickety children.


	21. Chapter 21

The day drags on. And on. And on. Robin, now feeling slightly better than he did even before The Incident, as he's calling it, like some of the overwhelming exhaustion has left him; has dared to explore the room to the best of his abilities. Its basic, in a luxurious rich-person basic way. That means what furniture there is, bed, dresser, mirror, is all high end, and the rug on the ground is plush, but very little else exists. Slade really wasn't planning on using this place, if it wasn't stocked and ready with every contingency he could possibly think of. Maybe… that could give Robin his way out…?

The Justice League, Batman, was obviously a failure. Slade could crush the Titans as a full strength team, much less down their leader. 

He… may be on his own.

When did the thought become so painful? He founded the Titans on his own. He left Batman on his own. Even with Batman, he was only with the Bruce around half the time, Gotham was too large to halve their potential crime fighting. Robin was, after all, able to handle most minor thugs and robberies by himself. And if, for some reason, he got himself into a pickle, Batman would come for him. As swiftly as he was able. Sometimes it wasn't swift enough, and Robin was hurt, but in the end all those times were just really good lessons. 

So, no. It shouldn't twist his stomach like this. He shouldn't want to just stop examining the vent at the foot of his bed. It shouldn't. But it does. It's uncomfortably close to the memory of those first years as Bruce Wayne's ward. How he wished Bruce would show a little bit of warmth, would gather him into a hug, hold him while he mourned his family. Looking back, Robin knew why. Bruce had just barely made a name for himself as Batman at the time, and knew if he let himself become too attached to the broken, hurting child, he would have hung up the cape for good. With the weight of Gotham, occasionally the world, on his broad shoulders, Bruce couldn't make that sacrifice. And by the time he realized realized he could try and do both, Dick was too old. He was too angry, outbursts when he decided to go to school, homework undone or half heartedly turned in, acting out to be seen as Dick, not Bruce Wayne's newest charity gone to extreme levels. And by then, Dick had grown numb to what he wanted. He’d learned to bury it beneath a facade that would later become his Robin persona. But why was it coming back now? The memories, the pain was old. 

Unless…

He wouldn't have noticed, before now he was always either asleep or with Slade, but… Robin always knew his mask was tied deeply into his sense of self. It was the easiest way to separate his civilian and hero selves, because sometimes he kept his suit on under his jeans and sweaters. The mask was the _only_ way to be sure who he was at the moment. The comforting weight had been removed only for showers. Dick was softer, he was the elegant socialite right beside Bruce. He made friends and kept them easier than Beast Boy gaining fur or claws. Effortless. Dick wasn't Robin.

Robin was... cold sometimes. Dick nearly always had a soft word or gesture. Robin could, if not exactly handle the worst of Gotham, suck it up and soldier on. Dick… if that softer, more innocent part of himself ever saw what Robin did. He wouldn't make it.

And yet, somehow… 

Robin stops trying to pry the vent free, rocking back onto his heels for a moment, deep in thought.

It's been months, maybe, who knew anymore when he wasn't allowed a calendar or a window, and he had survived. Robin had thought he had buried Dick so far down he'd never thought the old persona would surface again. He thought, clearly foolishly, that he could turn away from his old self. Dick grew attached to people, that's what he did. And now, it seemed, the removal of Robin's mask let that small, quirk free. He _wanted_ to bond with the two others in the lair. 

“What are you doing now, Richard?” That name isn't helping either, and Robin refuses to look up, slowly closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to visually block out the older man. He's still sitting, hunched over to get a better look at the small grated metal. 

“That's not my name.” Weakly, miserably aware now of how much he wants the companionship Wintergreens presence offered, Robin denies. 

“Isn't it? Did Slade pick up another black haired boy then?” Wintergreens voice was warm, almost playful as he asked, tilting his head slowly to the side. 

“I'm Robin, Wintergreen. Richard… doesnt exist anymore. I'm not him.” If his eyes were open, Robin would question the soft, sympathetic look lighting Wintergreen’s eyes, understanding and pitying in equal measures. As it was, Robin barely stopped himself from flinching when the butler hummed, the quiet swishing from his shoes over the soft carpet, until the elderly presence towered over Robin, threatening to consume him. “I'm not a child either, despite what Slade thinks.”

“Is that so?” More movement. Wintergreen was setting something down, settling himself on the edge of the bed. Without his vision, Robin could feel his ears twitch, trying ro pick up any scrap of sound to replace his vision. The question, frank and judgement free, tempted more from Robins mouth.

“I'm nearly 18!” Give or take four years, that's not important. “You can't keep me here! I'm going to get out of here and then-- and then you'll regret it!”

“Oh?” Wintergreen’s voice hold softness without the lingering bitterness of patronizing. Its effictivelt a puncture for Robins ire, letting it sink back down in his chest. Wintergreen waits a moment, to ensure there will not be a further outburst, before letting his hand rest in the surprisingly soft black tresses. “What brought this on, Richard? I thought we were past this. You're not a vigilante here, you don't need to hide your identity or your age.” 

“I'm losing myself.” The softly admitted phrase, coupled with the weight of Richards head leaning closer to his hands, twists Wills stomach. Empathy, because he remembers all too well that feeling, flows in his chest. 

“You aren't losing anyone, child. This is… this is all just a new way of looking at things.” For the life of him, Will can't keep the gentleness from his voice. No more than he could withdraw his hand, or scold the boy. He's just a child, a small broken creature afraid of the darkness of his life. “I know this may seem new, and scary, to you, but Slade and myself don't mean you harm.”

The reassurance should have been given far before this, but Will does the best he can now. There's a tremble in the boy, a softening in the face of his distress that tells Will either the child was aging down or was desperately fighting his urge to age down. 

“I don't want it.” 

“I know, I know you don't.” 

Silence, after that. There was nothing more either could say, no words to soothe a pain that shouldn't be felt. 

  


Wintergreen, after leaving the room with a quiet explanation, drops by several more times before Robin is allowed out. He doesn't stay for long, but always bring something. A sweet, a book, even a pad of paper and a few well sharpened pencils. Nothing that could help him escape, and so useless to him. Robin lets the offerings stay on top of the dark wooden dresser. He does, eventually, take a shower, but the rest of the day is spent miserably in bed. His mind's a tangled mess, questions rising and falling and chasing the last around his mind in dizzying, spiraling abandon. Half the time he doesn't even register the thoughts, just feeling them rush, push against the inside of his skull. Needless to say, when Wintergreen opened the door again, he's not in the best of moods.

“Would you just _go away?_ ” 

“I thought you would enjoy a chance to come out, come to dinner. Unless you'd rather spend more time alone?” Of course he didn't want to spend more time in the room. Robin stands, scowling as the shirt Wintergreen dropped off earlier dwarfs his form. It looked like he was swimming in the excess material, the hem hitting mid thigh. At least the shorts fit better, almost comfortable. 

“Is Slade going to be there?” What he would give for the answer to he a firm “no”. 

“Of course he's going to be there. And I expect both of you to be on your best behavior, understand?” It's too late to turn back, they're already at the threshold to the kitchen, panels of the walls ripped off to show the inner workings of the lair, wires and metal tubing in the walls.

With exquisite reluctance, Robin enters the room, keeping his eyes downcast. Its childish, but he has to do something, and if revealing his eyes started this weakness, maybe keeping them hidden can work to rebuild the walls slade so cruelly ripped down.

“Will.” Slade acknowledges, lowering his head in greeting. The tension is clear, even to Robin, the icy atmosphere matching his own mood perfectly. If Slade wanted to be crabby, Robin could out crabby him any day, after all, the hero had a reason to be crabby, Slade did not. “... Richard.”

He doesn't deserve a response. Robin crosses his arms, slinking down into the seat closest to to the door. Some part of him, the angry part, that wants a fight no matter how it'll end, is even more riled at the lack of true reaction his blatant rudeness elicits. Slade just takes a breath, the wind of it catching on the metal breathing slits cut into his mask. 

Dinner is silent, tense. For once, Wintergreen and Slade don't talk. They're completely silent, the scraping of knives the only thing that dares lift the heavy silence. Robin’s food, and he's not even fully aware of what he's placing in his mouth, tastes like ash. It's nothing against Wintergreen, who nearly is on par with Alfred, but rather the distracting knowledge that the knife in his hand is sharp. Its well taken care of, and Slade is _so close._ It wouldn't take much, not at all… one small lunge. And there wouldn't be a problem anymore. Even Slade is able to be caught off guard, if he could--

“Richard? Are you done?” Robin startles, realizing he'd been finished for a while, and that his grip had shifted on the knife, holding it more like a birdarang than a simple eating utensil. 

“Yeah…” He mutters, forcing his uncooperative hand to drop the knife back to his plate, pushing his chair back.

“Bring your dishes to the sink, please.” Before he's able to stand, Wintergreen interrupts. It's an easy enough task, and Robin doesn't notice how Slade tilts his head, eye narrowing. The old man is up to something.

“Thank you, ready to return to your room?” Robin just shrugs, kicking his bare feet lightly against the polished wood floor. He's all out of order, angry and scared and forcibly complacent. What he wants, of course, is to rage against Slade. He wants to fight the man, to feel his fists hit, to feel answering pain in his knuckles.

But, he can't. He knows he can't. Slade is too powerful, too strong. Robin has to content himself with little acts of rebellion, toeing the line between behaving and acts that would end up with him in a full body cast. As much as Will seems to have his back, Robin doesn't trust that Slade would allow himself to be restrained by an old man's anger.

So, silently, seething and afraid, Robin follows the butler back to his room. He has hours now, of nearly guaranteed solitude, to try and figure out an escape attempt.

  


It’s not like he expected much. Still, two hours later, Robin flops messily onto his bed. Nothing. There is not a single thing in the entirety of the room to help his escape. He even turned the bathroom upside down. 

What was he going to, could he do?

  
  


The armor is old. But Slade isn't expecting heavy resistance. His trip tonight is aiming for maximum stealth, anyway. If the bulkier, uncomfortable protection has any positives, it would be the sensor damping features. He could dance the macarena in front of a hero and all the “night vision” or “heat vision” in the world wouldn’t reveal him. It turned out to be too expensive-- and the fabric itself is annoyingly stiff-- for reliable military wear, but Slade had kept the prototype. It's what he dons now, briefly grateful he had the foresight to wear his preferred armor when forced to flee his home. 

Forced to flee.

The thought brings a scowl to his features, not only surrendering perfectly usable, comfortable accommodations, but his labs and Wills personal objects. Leaving those behind is unacceptable. So he's running a rescue mission. In and out, it will only take a few minutes. But there are some things he will require for Richard, things he had ordered his bots to make, and had never introduced. And the playpen, oh the playpen is coming along. Richard is going to spend some _long_ days in there. 

The trip is easy as well, practically a light jog away from the new place. Stretching his legs, it’s been too long. Richard really is taking him away from contracts… It’s not such a negative theory that he thought it would be. Though the outside in dead and empty, there's some surveillance left, bat cameras and the like, but the footage is easily looped and he slips in without detection. 

He's death on silent feet, destroying anything he cannot permanently disable. No one will be getting information from his computers, nor the robots he gives a brief command to. They'll go underground, travel until they can meet the few bots at the new place, bulk up that protection. Quite a few are turned into pack animals, bundles of clothes and possessions swiftly pushed into their metal arms. It takes longer than he anticipated, they'd put down roots here, and metaphorically salting the earth which held them is more difficult than Slade imagined. Will's fingerprints are _everywhere_ , as is his own hair. Three bots will be left to deal with that, and everything is ready to go. Only a few minutes left before someone-- likely the Bat, or that new kid he pushed in Richards mantel-- figures out the recording has been tampered with. By then, he'll be long gone.

One room. That's all that's left.

Richards room.

His clothing and the like have already been taken, thanks to a few more robots, but the box in the closet… It was wrong, somehow, to not personally carry the broken box home. Moments before his self imposed hour limit is reached, Slade disappears, silently as a ghost and twice as swiftly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not satisfied with this chapter, but it's a day late already


	22. Chapter 22

Miles away, deep inside Gotham, Bruce Wayne frowns at his myriad of computer screens. There's something wrong. A flash of color on the screen, shadows shifting abruptly. He hadn't been actively watching the screens. Jason, the fast talking street rat that dared steal tires off the _Batmobile_ , had been injured last night. Not as badly as Ro-- as Dick had been, before, but it's the first time the younger boy had taken a hit. They're in the Cave, Bruce carefully watching the boys vitals, blue-green eyes closed for now. Some days, those eyes are too close to Dick's, some days Batman can hardly look at the boy. He loves Jason, there is no doubt, but Dick… Dick is his first son, and right now he’s hurting. He’s far from Batman’s grasp and in the lair of a criminal mastermind who is doing God only knows what to his _son._

Maybe Dick didn’t hear enough, maybe Bruce was not as good with words as he always tried to portray, but Bruce did love the boy. It made their last fight devastating, finding out Dick didn’t feel safe anymore, that he had to pretend to be a child in order to find even a little peace. Batman didn’t need a partner as badly as Bruce’s son deserved to feel safe. It should have ended there, Bruce was in charge, but Dick… Dick wasn’t going to have it. Now Bruce knows that being Robin is deeply ingrained into his son’s soul as being Batman is in his. It… all of it was a mistake. A mistake he is unable to fix. It sits heavily in his chest, another burden pulling down his shoulders. He should have apologized, he should have listened to Dick when he called he should have--

“Da-Bruce?” The mid-name switch shouldn’t be painful, but it was. Dick was never able to call Bruce ‘Dad’ either. And since Jason wouldn’t even speak about the life he had before Bruce, it shouldn’t be a surprise.

“Jason.” Calmly, a little gravelly because he’s still in the cowl, Bruce smiles. “You feeling alright? Took a pretty hard hit earlier.” 

Already, Jason’s trying to sit up, staring at the small medical bay Bruce had put in. 

“What happened? Did the bad guys get away?” His fingers search, find his mask, smooth it on. Bruce isn’t about to let another child feel unsafe, shaking his head and pulling the slim boy closer to his bulk.

“No, I got them, only took a moment after you went down. They’re in Arkham tonight, okay?” Jason’s face falls, but the expression is gone before Bruce can question why. Instead, Jason focuses on the large bank of computer monitors, tilting his head and letting dyed black hair fall over his eyes. 

“What's going on over there?” He points, finger strong and unshaking. It’s with his injured arm, so Bruce takes that as a good sign, standing from his son’s bedside and striding over to the desk. His path takes his right past Dick’s personal space, his desk that’s kept spotless and dust free thanks to Alfred along, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even let his eyes sweep past his son’s belongings. Later. He can mourn again later. Because, he saw Slade’s anger, how mad he went. Batman felt the terrible strength his suit couldn’t fully adsorb, that anger turned on his son… There was no way Dick could survive something like that. Dick, still so optimistic, so joyful and soft. If he was still alive… and that’s a big ‘if--’ Dick would never be the same. He’d be twisted by Slade.

Standing next to the computers, Batman gestures roughly at them.

“Slade’s lair. He’s the one that took your older brother, Dick.” 

“The Robin before me? Guy in Jump City?” Jason questions, frowning and looking over the screen. “I don’t like him, why did he let himself get caught?” 

“Jason…” Reproachfully, Bruce shakes his head. “He didn’t get captured, he was _taken._ By a very dangerous enemy. Deathstroke shouldn’t have been in Jump in the first place, there is nothing of importance there.” 

It’s still highly confusing to Bruce, but not important at the moment. 

“Still-- whats that!?” The sudden exclamation has Batman swirling around, heart pounding hard in his chest. On the monitor, he and Jason watch in amazement as first a… green tiger? Leaps into the shot, pauses and looks directly into the camera. Bruce just realizing what-- no, who, he's seeing when one of Dick's friends, beast boy, transforms back into a human. He looks upset, scowling up at the camera. There's no microphones at the lair, but Batman knows how to read lips. Beast boy's words come across clearly.

“Hey! Jerk! We need to talk! Can you even hear me?” There's more, but the boy is turning away, looking suspiciously at the plush couch and armchairs, before turning back into a tiger and giving one a satisfyingly large rip down its side.

“You're going?” There's little hope the changeling was calling for someone else, Batman's cameras were a fairly obvious calling card, being shaped like bats after all. Bruce nods, glancing over his shoulder at his son. “He's one of Dick's-- Robin's, he goes by Robin with them-- friends. He may know something.” The easy excuse makes Jason frown, brows furrowing. 

“And he hasn't come to you before? Some friend.” 

“He had no way to contact me before.” There's pain there, knowing Dick didn't leave anyway for his friends, his little team pretending to be heros, to contact his father in case things went awry. In addition to being hurtful, it was plain unsafe. If there was even a slight chance to get information… Bruce was going to take it. Before Jason can say anything else, Batman was up and into the batplane. It looks like Slades lair won't last long, not with the green feline joyfully shredding more of the surprisingly homey looking furniture. 

  


Beast Boy knows there's an intruder in the lair long before the sound of booted feet scrape the ground close to him. Still, he stays crouching, striped tail twitching dangerously. It's nothing against the Bat, who is the _coolest person ever._ It's just… 

He smells like Robin. Not a whole lot, not overpoweringly. It's just there, the edge of metal and gadgets, maybe the same soap or laundry detergent? It's just enough to make it near impossible to stop himself from lunging at the man, from wanting to bury his nose in the man's scent and just breathe for a moment. His ears press flat to his head. But that, at least, can be blamed on the customary flash pain of forcing his bones to break and remold themselves. 

“Beast Boy, I presume?” Holy… that voice. It makes even him, literally raised as an animal, want to straighten up, adjust his mussed clothing.

“B-Batman…?” A smile dances along the edge of the man's lips, and though the eyes behind the cowl are piercing, they almost seem… amused?

“Or jerk, if you prefer.” Oh. Yeah. He did say that, didn't he? Sheepishly, rubbing at his spiky moss green hair, Beast Boy grins. 

“Sorry… just no one has tried to talk to us. We’re trying to find Robin too.” There's too much honesty in his voice, hurt coloring it clearly. The fact The Batman didn't come to them, Robin's friends is a blow.

“Tell me what you know. Everything about Slade, his… preoccupation with Robin.” Beast Boy can feel his ears twitch, back and away from the imposing figure. This wasn't how this was meant to go! Batman was treating him like he was little more than one of the crooks staining Gotham's already tarnished reputation.

“Hey! I brought you here to ask you that!” He snaps, straightening his stance. _Threat, threat,_ his instincts thrum in his veins. The longer Batman stood there, the more this entire thing felt like a bad idea. An awful idea. “I don't even know why i did, you obviously don't know anything.” 

Turns out? His instincts were right. Batman is a threat, and obviously doesn't mind using force to underline that point. Beast Boy grunts, the wall cold at his back through his uniform. He's not hurt, just pushed, hard. 

“I said, tell me.” How had Robin lived with the guy? It makes so much more sense now, that Robin prefers not to talk about him. Beast Boy draws in a breath, drawing the smell, the taste of the leather cloaked man until it lingers in the back of his throat. It won't help much, not human and sense blind as he is, but when he's not confined to two legs… it soothes his instincts some, getting a sense of his opponent. There's a growl in his voice when he answers, a snarl lifting his lip. 

“Hey! Hands off!” He's dropped, and not a moment too soon, he's already changing. Cheetah, fast and deadly, and there's the rest of the Titans: Raven's scent of incense and lack, the static electricity of Starfire's energy bolts passing inches from his fur, Cybor's normally low pitched electrical hum ramped up to a screeching howl, ready to discharge a sonic cannon blast. 

“Booyah! BB, need a hand?” Cyborg. Beast Boy turns a catty smile his friends way. This, in this moment, is the closest he's sounded to normal since the day they realized Robin was gone. The oldest teen had taken it the hardest, growing more solemn in the face of their leaders absence. 

Batman pauses, glances around. He's not so sure about his chances now, the sour spice of uncertainty filling Beast Boys lungs. He wants that, wants to leap and lunge and hunt, now that the odds are firmly in his favor. 

“Why are you hurting our friend? Are we not all trying to find Robin?” Starfire asks, the gentle green glow around her hands fades as she lands, standing in front of the masked man. There's a quiet desperation in her eyes, the innocence the others attempted to preserve cracking under the stress they all now faced. Robin did so much for all of them, they never knew. With his absence…

Everything was just the smallest bit harder. 

Even Batman sees taken aback at Starfire's impassioned question, just slightly. His frown, already stern, deepens. It's the most emotion Beast Boy has ever seen from the man, and he can't pick it apart like he wants to, the motion barely discernible.

“I am. Which is why you're going to tell me everything you know about Slade.” The fact he completely glosses over the team speaks volumes. Batman doesn't think he needs the Titans, that much is clear. Beast Boy transforms back into his human skin, glaring at the man in black. 

“Totally not cool. We want to help! Robin is our _family_!” The words, despite the fact they're being uttered for the very first time, are true. Robin is more than a teammate, more than their leader or a friend. He's their family. An older brother, maybe, a really young uncle. Something good and _needed._ It doesn't sound like Batman was going to give Robin back, when he was found.

“And yet you don't even know his name, do you?” Beast Boy flinches, which is what Batman surely wanted, because he's entirely too self satisfied when he turns his chilly gaze to Starfire. “And you, know nothing about being my son's family. You don't know anything about my son.”

He's possessive, the Batman growl deepening as he speaks. His weight shifts, alert and ready to fight. Beast Boy copies the motion, leaning forward, baring his teeth in a show of unrestrained hostility.

“I know who you are.” Sudden, freezing silence descends, all attention focused on where Cyborg is pushing himself upright, face intent in the half shadow. “Everyone forgets. But I'm connected to the internet, B, at all times. I can run calculations, see patterns, know exactly where and when Batman is around and about. And who, exactly, is absent. Every. Single. Time. Batman is spotted.” 

He doesn't need to finish the threat, cybernetic eye unmoving as his other darts to his friends. It's unfair. He could know almost everything about them, everything they posted or shared. He tries to ignore it, often succeeds, but… he knows all it would take was a moment, a second lapse of his control... And now they know. He's a ticking time bomb of blackmail on all of them. If they were smart, they'd kick him out, for hiding this if not for the fact he could use all his knowledge against them at any time.

Bruce-- no sense in ignoring the facts he knows, gives a near imperceptible nod. He's acknowledging it, at least, that the Titans have him by the short and curlies. They'll work together on this… for now. It doesn't stop the dismay hammering in his chest, or the unease he feels looking at the odd, inhuman group in front of him, but it's the only concession he'll make. 

“Then you know how to contact me. I'll send an info packet when i am able, send me all you know on Slade.” There's no longer any incentive to stay and chat. Bruce turns sharply and strides out the door, slipping into the batplane and letting the engines autopilot bring him home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk for a second.  
> Next week i will likely not have an update. We've reached the end of my pre-written chapters and I'm in a bit of a depressive funk, so writing is hard.  
> There's nothing to worry about, I'll be fine, just a heads up. Thank you guys, i love you


	23. Chapter 23

“Is it just me or… did that really suck?” Of course it's Beast Boy, trying to break the somber mood that fell over the group once the Bat had stalked away. 

Raven barely spares a glance at the green skinned boy. Starfire, who had been one of the ones most hurt by Robin first lying then seemingly abandoning them, is staring longingly at the mans back as he disappears. She can almost understand, no amount of meditation is helping right now, either her powers flatly refuse to manifest at all, or they're so erratic she cannot control them. It's been much of the same for the pretty alien. Her powers, which focus on feeling an emotion to the utmost, have even failed during a fight. And now, their biggest lead is walking away, proven to be a giant jerk. 

“Star.” Flatly, because it's flatly or let the burbling mess of emotion choke her, Raven calls for the other girl. “It's a start, we didn't even expect for him to show.”

It should have been encouraging. She should have been giving Starfire at least a little bit of hope. Instead, she looks worse, more miserable, less able to handle it. 

“We should be doing more. I cannot believe--” Raven cuts her off, unable to continue to hear her friend in such unhappiness.

“Believe it, or not. There is no use. He is not here, and will not be here unless we save him.” 

“...Which, we are going to. Right guys?” Beast Boy? He sounds so… young. Has he always been that young? He can't be, not really. Raven looks over, frowning at how Beast Boy is shrinking in on himself, trying to become smaller after the, she suspects, too-honest question. Everyone else is silent. Staring at… her? They're staring at her. Why…? Is she supposed to be the voice of, what? Reason? Hope? 

“We… will?” No, no. That’s not going to work right now. She can't… she has to do better than that. All around her, the delicate ripples of their auras flicker. The brilliant jewel tones of their energy take ashen, greying around the edges with a rotting helplessness none of them ever deserved to feel. She frowns, ignoring the breath of cutting wind that nips around her ankles as her own despair rises, and forces her face calm again. She will do this. No matter if she can or not. “We will. Robin has never given up on us, we won't give up on him.”

The words taste like dust, like charred ashes of hope and trust, on her tongue. But the other three seem to take strength from the firmly stated words. Their heads lift, spirits curling like fae fire around their bodies. 

“We will find our friend Robin!” And, for once, Raven is relieved by Starfire's hopeful naivete, her endless optimism. If it meant Raven never had to be the hopeful one again, Starfire could gush until the end of days for all she cared.

  
  


Its early morning, when Slade meets the main bulk of his robots at the new base. They're still, silent sentries around the room, neat and tidy in metal rows that extend past the shadows softening the corners of the large, open basement. Their burdens released, neatly put away at Will's firm direction, only one still has its head up, eyes glowing. 

Richard's things…

What to do with them. The child-- the boy has not been behaving by any stretch of the imagination. What, exactly, constitutes as a requirement and what is a privilege? After this stunt, Richard deserves the very bare minimum, after all. He didn't have an overabundance at the other lair, but a fair amount of choice. Soft, comfortable underthings, a choice of colors and styles.

A part of Slade, still reeling over the memory, the feel of Richard's skin splitting under his gloved knuckles, wants to avoid the hassle of sorting through it all. Perhaps, the beating was punishment enough. Perhaps they should attempt a fresh start. Yet… another argues just as fiercely for underlining his position. One outfit to train in, one to sleep in. Orange and black only. No frills. 

Is there… a middle ground? Absently, Slade opens the box, ruffling through the first few layers. Yes… perhaps…

None of the surprisingly fancy hair care, that's a luxury. Richard could deal with the basic, scentless wash Slade uses for himself. Four shirts, two long sleeved, two short. All are dyed his signature orange, but are the style and material Richard had seemed to favor. The pants, black, are tighter than he had been wearing, but lightly armored. It'll do him well to get used to the feeling, to learn how to fight in the more restrictive but more protective material. It's… pathetic. It should be. How few items Richard actually has, now. How many he had. 

Finally…

Slade is… reluctant, to open the last box. The one he personally carried. Where Richard released the facade he carried and allowed himself to be small, to be looked after. Slade hasn't given up on swaying the boys younger side to his plans, even after this roadblock. The only question being if being allowed, or encouraged, to regress would be a reward. 

Without acknowledging his body's movement, one of his hands dip into the box, clever fingers tracing over the soft, giving material held within. Fascinating. The items are neither large nor captivating. They're truly just toys, just reminders of the past. How do they unlock the little boy who raised his hands demandingly at Slade, who wanted affection and hugs even when his body went slack in the hold of sleep?

It's a curiosity, nothing more. A wish to understand. More knowledge can only be beneficial, after all. 

The wolf, weighted heavy in his paws and stomach, what were the benefits to withholding it? To giving it? 

Eventually, he tucks the box into his own quarters, easy access should the boy come out, but still firmly under Slade's control. That will have to do, for now. Later he may adjust, but at the moment… it's fine.

  
  


Morning comes quickly to the lair, Slade waking easily to the sound of Will's obnoxiously loud alarm clock blaring a cheerful greeting. The old man must still be irritated, the sound is far closer than usual and Will knew how Slade loathed the sound. Any comment on it, however would be met with a chilly silence and the blasted things continued presence for a week, minimum. 

Some things just weren't worth it. 

It didn't mean, however, that Slade was in a particularly pleasant mood when he headed closer to Richard's room, knocking firmly on the door twice before opening it. 

“Richard. It's time for breakfast.” There's no response from the lump on the bed, but his breathing is agitated. He's awake. Irritation flares a little higher, when Richard fails to heed another call. “Richard! What has gotten into you?!”

Silence.

Before he's fully aware of the movement, the blankets that were around Richard are flying in the opposite direction, and he is seconds from smacking some sense into the boys thick skull. Honestly, he has never met a more ornery, obstinate child in all his--

Child. 

Because that's all Richard is. A child, playing dress up and pretending to be a hero. Yesterday, the day before, seeing the boy still and silent, had made that realization painfully clear to Slade. Logically, he knew. He knew Richard was young. But, he moved and spoke and took up much more space that a child should. He was aged beyond his years.

Slade barely is able to check his hand, pulling it up sharply just before the blow could land. 

Robin doesn't even flinch, glittering anger filling his eyes. And, when he speaks, its hard and cold. Furious, and strangely impersonal.

“Do it. If you're gonna hit me, just do it.” He's said something similar before, but it's different this time, stronger, more potent. He actually means it, and for a moment, Slade considers it. He considers letting the next smack connect, giving Richard what he clearly wants. But, no. Will would be cross, and even if he's talking with the venom of a rattlesnake, Richard is still a child. He is a _child._

So Slade takes a breath, tries again.

“Richard… I” He's actually going to say it. Slade pauses, and realizes its true. His next words are true. Their truthfulness is as shocking as his willingness to give voice to them, and he pauses for a moment, just to come to terms with that fact. “I… regret, my actions. I am unaccustomed to feeling trapped and reacted poorly to the implication you may be removed from my keeping.” 

The hatred doesn't abate from Richards eyes, but maybe, there's a hint of surprised wariness under that. Either way, he sits up a little more, pushing at the blankets. 

“Your keeping? That's what you're calling it now?” Said under his breath, Richard likely doesn’t know Slade can hear him. Luckily for him, Slade was more darkly amused than annoyed with the backtalk.

“Yes, that is what I'm calling it, it has a rather nice ring to it.” Behind his mask, he allows a smile. Richard's head whips around, narrow eyes a dead giveaway he was not expect Slade to hear or respond to his catty remark. “Now, come. Breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, folks


	24. Chapter 24

Why does that little brat feel the need to continuously fight over every little thing? Slade tries to keep his calm, glaring over at where Rochard is sullenly picking at the scrambled eggs Will prepared. Slade wasn't a fan of them himself, the texture what it was, and being salted with a too generous hand-- an affliction he was fairly certain only his suffered from--, but he at least had better manners than to sit and push them from one side of his plate to the other. 

“Richard.” His only response is a grunt, Richard's eyes glued to the plate like it's the only interesting thing in the world. “Eat your food, don't play with it.” 

“I don't like eggs.” Slade raises an eyebrow, frowning. 

“You've eaten them every other time Will has prepared them, eat.” That should be the end of it. Slade thinks it's the end of it, reluctantly bringing another forkful if egg under his mask. But Richard clearly has other plans, pushing his plate away.  

Will, still highly annoyed with Slade and so disinclined to offer insight on Richards behavior, watches silently. So, alone, Slade soldiers on, narrowing his eye threateningly at the boy. Who, keeping within today's theme, keeps his head lowered, body tense and defensive. 

“You will need your strength for training today, i suggest you eat. Before I make you.” Hadn’t Slade made that threat before? And, in the end, Richard had been forced to obey. If he was smart, and Slade knows for a fact the boy is, he’d stop fussing and start eating. 

“That doesn’t matter. I’m not training.” He’s not what? Narrowed eyed, Slade stands, knowing full well he cuts an intimidating figure as he does so. Richard is still looking away, however, and Slade raps his metal knuckles against the table. Hard. 

“Have I ever given you a choice? Eyes up and answer me.” In spite of suspecting Richards next line of behavior, Slade is distinctly unimpressed. And unamused. He keeps his head low, even going as far as to quickly shut his eyes at Slades demand. Oh this, this will not do. 

Robin can't help his sharp breath when suddenly Slade is standing beside him. He wants to, he seriously regrets even giving the man the slightest bit of a reaction, but Slade is just too large, too persistent in his presence. Robin can't help it, darting a glance up. Yeah, he's mad. He's mad and Robin refuses to care, gritting his teeth against the oncoming pain. He's been too free with his responses. He's been giving in. That stops now. Surrendering to Slade stops now. It's all going to stop, he will not allow it to continue. For all he doesn't know it yet, Slade has seen the _last_ of Dick Grayson, he's going to be facing Robin, the Boy Wonder, every moment of every day from this millisecond on. 

So, the hand on his shoulder isn't a surprise. He knows it, the pressure of Slades metal clad fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder, the way Slade leans down to be just a little more intimidating, how breath stirs the tips of his unwashed, ungelled hair. Its familiar as it is terrifying, his heart beating double time in his chest and breath coming out ragged and hard. But he refuses to lose, his teeth letting out a dangerous kind of creaking as the pressure put upon them does not abate. 

“Excuse me, Richard?” Slade’s right behind him, seemingly everywhere at once, and the hand that isn't perched on his shoulder lifts his chin. It doesn't matter how Robin struggles against that hand, it lifts his head like his effort isn't there at all. “I believe you were told to look at me.”

No! It was only after his mask was removed that Robin started to be this _weak._ There's something about it, about having the barrier between his two personas removed, that makes it impossible not to surrender to the older man. He closes his eyes, scrunching his lids shut as firmly as he possibly can. 

“Richard!” This is ridiculous, Slade growls low in his chest. The boy is obviously terrified, seconds away from shaking in Slades hold like a leaf in the late autumn wind, and yet he still won't obey. “I demand the respect of being at least _looked at_ if you're going to try and disobey me!” 

Nothing. 

His face, upturned by Slade's helping hand, is too pale for comfort, and he's biting his lip with an anxious fervor. Whatever is going through his childish mind is obviously important. There will be time to figure it out later. For now, his voluntary blindness works in Slades favor. He grabs the abandoned fork, scooping a fair amount of eggs onto the prongs before pressing it to Richard's lips. Richard, who was obviously expecting something else, lets the fork pass his lips in surprise, forgetting to struggle until the third forkful Slade attempts to feed him.

“Slade!” He protests, loud and violent, but Slade is bigger, stronger. He holds the boy still. 

“Richard.” As fierce as Richard was fighting, Slade responds with an equal power, subtler but just as strongly. “I gave you your choices, you made it, now you deal with the consequences. Unless you want to stop throwing a fit and finish your breakfast?” 

“I'm not going to! I don't like eggs!” His head thrashes, side to side, but Slade upends another forkful of the breakfast. It's… almost amusing, if it weren't so annoying. Not like his usual levels of annoying, like Richard is doing this for a reason. A reason shadowed to Slade, but clearly something the boy thinks fighting for is worth it. Alongside the faint amusement, frustration rises. Frustration at the early morning, the obnoxious way Richard is behaving, frustration because his oldest friend is angry and not talking to him. It's not a thing Slade can fix with his wits or his weapons, and it leaves him strangely off balance. Off balance and frustrated are not Richard's friends at the moment, and Slade takes the time to breathe deeply, glaring down at the still struggling boy.

“You are going to, Richard. And you will continue to train and obey me.” While, yes, his voice is harsh, Slade doesn't hit the boy. He doesn't strike the foolish defiance out of him. He stops, and he _forces_ his way into calm. It's more the calm of a mission, a plan crystalizing in his mind's eye, than a true calm. 

But it's good enough, and Slade holds hard onto it. Hard enough he's able to keep his touch relatively gentle, as he lays on hand on each of Richard's cheeks, stilling the head under his palms and turning until they face each other fully. Richard is terrified of him, worse than the first moment he awoke in Slade lair, and this particular brand of terror will not bring obedience. It will not bring trust. So, keeping a mental stranglehold on the fleeting calm he managed, he waits. Says nothing, just stands there, hands cupping Richards face.

It takes entirely too long, Will raising an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic gesture and the patience accompanying it, but Slade earns his reward. It's just the barest slivers at first. The smallest hint of blue under the long lush black of his lashes. But, ever so slowly, Richard opens his eyes. 

“Slade?” Questioning, now. Slade allows himself to smile, hidden safely behind the mask. The senseless anger had faded, Richard’s eyes were clear and blue, not clouded in the paralyzed fear fueled fury like they had been. It'll be too easy to send him back, though. Like tending a wounded animal, any sudden changes would prompt an attack. It's easier, instead, to remove first one, then the other hand from his face. Gently. Slowly. Carefully. 

“Finish your breakfast.” 

And, a minor miracle, he does. 

That was… confusing. Robin was-- is, confused. Slade… Slade had. He had held him. No anger, or hurt was found in the two large hands that had curled around his face. And he wasn't pushed for answers either. Slade had just let him be, thumbs absently brushing over his cheekbones. Robin wasn't able to hold onto his rage, not after that. There was nothing to rage at. Not with something like kindness in Slade’s eye when Robin dares to finally look. 

If not kindness, then it was definitely understanding he found in the flat slate of the man's eye. Understanding and acceptance. That was the weirdest part. The acceptance, he means. Slade wasn't supposed to be understanding. He wasn't supposed to look on Robin's outbursts and hold him until he calmed. The man is his enemy. His hands, the same hands that were just on his face, had been dipped into the blood of hundreds of innocent people! How could he possibly understand even a fraction of what Robin was going through?

“Richard.” Wintergreen has been calling him for a while, voice soft and coaxing. In front of him, another surprise, his plate is empty. He doesn't even remember eating the eggs he had been so vehemently against. “Lost in thought?”

He can only nod, frowning as his hair flops messily into his face. 

“That's alright. Slade is downstairs in the training room, if you'll take your plate to the sink, he asked you to join him.”

“Wintergreen--” But he's not even sure what to say. What is there to say, after his world has been so thoroughly shaken he's losing all sense of himself… yet again?

“I know. In time, that's all you can ask for. Go, now. Best not tempt fate too thoroughly.” He hadn't even asked a question yet. And yet… he's not as confused. A question he wasn't even sure he had, wrapped up and answered before it was spoken. Before the old man can make another shooing motion, Robin gives him a smile. It may not be the largest, nor the brightest, but it's honest, and that will have to do. He brings his plate to the sink and darts toward the stairs, slowing only once his brain catches up to his feet. 

Was he… was he just going to run to Slade? Like the past week never happened? Like Slade didn't break most his bones then decide, on his terms of course, that it wasn't what he wanted and fixed Robin right back up? 

_That_ was the man Robin was dealing with. Not the one in the kitchen, who held him like he was important. Not the one from in the bedroom, who fell asleep and trusted Robin wouldn't hurt him. Not the one his little side knew, whose laughter didn't hold the edge of malice. None of that was real. It just wasn't. Slade couldn't be both the good guy and the bad. No one could. There were good guys, and there were bad guys, the good guys put the bad guys in jail. That's _how it worked._ The other stuff… it had to be fake, somehow. It had to be a plot to make Robin trust him. Robin wasn't willing to let it happen. 


	25. Chapter 25

So, carefully, he makes his way down the stairs, every muscle tense and ready for a fight. 

There's noise already, soft grunts of effort, metal on metal, feet running and a body rolling around barely padded concrete. So it no surprise to turn the corner and watch as Slade fights off what seems like endless robots. Just from a moment of watching, and Robin knows they are much more advanced than the ones the Titans used to face. Those were clearly bots, they moved with a glitchy kind of slowness that made exploiting their weaknesses easy. The ones pitting themselves against Slade now were more than that. They moved smoothly, flowing from strike to block and back against so quickly it barely appeared to move. They were amazing, better than any technology he had seen before. 

“Pick two robots, bring them down.” Slade, still in the middle of his mini battle royal, spares half a heartbeat to glance over at Robin. “They'll automatically start the program I've designed for you. If you managed to disable one, I will show you how I repair them.” 

And he's smart enough to watch for weak points. It's too good of a deal to give up, and Robin nods shortly. His footsteps echo slightly around the large room, and it's cold enough he'll appreciate a hard workout. Line upon line of impassive robots stand before him, orange and black sitinials. There wasn't this many, when Slade-- before. There weren't this many before. Had Slade somehow…? He glances over, but Slade is still busy fighting a sizeable portion of the electronic army. Later. He'll ask later.

These things probably could be started with a wave of his hand, or by pointing his finger at the chosen ones, and yet. Robin still reaches out, tugs two robots out of line with the slightest amount of pressure applied from the tips of his fingers to theirs. 

He barely has another second to think about it, because the robots attack and they _work together_. He's throwing punches, and kicks, and somewhere, far in the distance of his mind, he knows before this, before Slade, he would have been beaten in the first minute. As it was, he was not only holding his own, he was actually getting close to beating them!

Interesting. 

Slade allows his focus to settle near fully on Richard.  He's improved, greatly and obviously, and unlike when he was facing off against Slade, the former hero actually is putting thought into his movements. He's unpolished still, milliseconds where he nearly stumbles or falls, but it doesn't change the fact that the boy is learning. 

Like now, with a robot on each side, at one time, Richard would have attempted to leap straight into the air. It worked, for novices and thugs, and the aftermath of watching whichever unfortunate fools blunder in an attempt to free themselves was amusing; but it left Richard vulnerable. Anyone with decent reflexes and half a brain would follow the movement, punch or shoot _upward_ and since Robin rarely, if ever, wore protective armor, he'd be down for the rest of the fight, minimum. Now, he glances to each side. Identifies the robot he's been hitting harder, giving more damage to, and strikes at a leg joint that's already unstable. The robot could fix itself, it's an easy repair, but that's just slightly above Richards level for a moment. The leg crumples, and Richard pulls on the metal shoulders, heaving with enough force it slams into the other and they both fall. 

Unfortunately, that's when his improvement stopped. Richard, sure he had won, rushes at the fallen robots. Only a swift word stills the machines already lunging towards the bird. 

“Check before you go after something” or someone, but that's not a fight to breach right now. “when it's down. Often they'll be waiting for you to make that very mistake.” 

He gestures, says another word, and the Robot is repairing itself, standing upright and steady. Richards face is horrified, Slades amused as he stalks closer to the now fixed robot. 

“I still have to do maintenance on it, if you want to stay?” There's a pause, brilliant blue eyes looking up at him, but Richard nods. Maybe it still wasn't quite right, Slade deliberately keeping his voice calm and movement slow, Richard skittish and furious in turns, but as the hours pass with clever fingers and machine oil, Slade allows himself to find hope. 

  


Tomorrow the last of the security measures are going to be powered on. Technically, as far as Slade knows, they're on right now. It's why his door isn't locked, why Slade had ordered him to his room alone just five minutes earlier. But, one of the workers installing the security system saw Robin, had slipped a tiny piece of paper under the door, advising him quite strongly that this may be his one, and only, chance now.

It's nice to know there are still people who are kind. 

Not that… Not that Slade had been _cruel_ this past week. He actually hadn't been. Robin knows he hasn't been… easy to get along with. But Slade held onto his temper, had repeated that thing, gently holding his face still, until he was calm as well. It was downright bizarre, and now Robin was almost conditioned to relax when those huge hands are on his face. 

It was… nice. If Robin let himself think of it like that. Which was exactly why he had to get out while he had the chance. It was, easy, to hate Slade, when he was acting evil and villainous; it was so much harder when Slade continuously held back, remained quiet, left Robin nothing to feed his anger with. 

What it had _absolutely nothing_ to do with, was what Slade asked him, quietly, as he worked on one of the robots Robin had fought. The man's eye was on the side opposite of Robin, hiding even that slight indicator of what he was thinking. But his voice was hushed, a kind of forced nonchalance as he bent over the machinery. 

“You haven't been-- small, recently.” The pause was barely noticeable, a bare hesitation, before Slade finishes. The soldering iron in his hand glows bright as he reattaches a wire Robin had left broken. 

Robin had felt himself tense, freezing in place. Its true, he had been repressing himself ruthlessly since The Incident. But Slade didn't need to mention it. He didn't need to glance over, one eye soft and relaxed, like he knew everything Robin was thinking. He had even let the conversation drop, after a long silence. 

But it was in Robin's head now. That acknowledging the combination of first regular ageplay and now none at all, somehow meant he wanted to. Wanted to more than he had in quite a while. Just… more reason to escape, he guesses. Before Slade can trick him into liking the older man even a little. 

He has to push away memories, thoughts about not succeeding and what will happen if he fails. Because, if he gives them a foothold… he shivers, glancing around his bare room. No, he's not going to let himself think like that. There's a strip of black fabric under one of his pillows, taken from one of his pillow cases. It's not his mask, but it'll conceal his identity well enough, and he winds it carefully around his head. It helps keep back his hair as well, preventing it from falling in his eyes. Slade had refused to give him back his gel or conditioner, and his hair is rough when he pushes it back in annoyance. Anything else is just going to weigh him down and he doesn't particularity want to bring anything else. He doesn't even want the clothes on his back, the orange feeling neon bright in the shadowed hallway as he creeps out the door. 

As promised, all the doorways encountered yield easily under his palm, traveling past the kitchen, past the den, past the work room. His memories are hazy at this point, washed a terrified grey. There were more important things to worry about, Slades hand against his neck, the fact Wintergreen still wasn't moving, Batman's complete and utter lack of interest in him. But… he had attempted to remember a few things. 

Its lucky he did. Half hazy memories are enough to lead him up, up, up, and then out. In the garage, the door opener fast, but near silent in the dark open space. It looks like an abandoned warehouse, fancy cars on pristine concrete. There's a glow, the faint sheen of city lights, seeping into the dark. A breath of wind gusts along with the open door, stinking of the cities worst. Old urine, trash, the grime of a city dances along in the breeze, and Robin breathes it in on greedy, furious inhalations. The filthy, stinking fumes of a city rise up inside him, waking him. Though the black strips of fabric are rough and foreign around his face, he wakes up. A fog around his head loosens, blows away, curls around Robins body and lifts him up. He can't see it, but oh, he feels his lips stretch around a feral grin.

This was His city, and she was welcoming home, with every gritty inch laid bare to beckon him home. 

Lightly, just because he can, Robin jumps up. There's exposed ceiling beams, and one of the cars is more tank-like than he's comfortable with, but it lends just enough height the leap to grab the beams is just this side of challenging. Easily jumping between the bars, he never pauses. Jump wasnt Gotham, didn't have the same vibrancy to the criminal element, but it was close enough Robin smiles into the dark, swinging himself up and onto the roof of the warehouse.

Or. 

He was going to.

In the middle of a mid air flip-- partly because it just _felt good_ and partly because Batman always tried to train the little superfluous moves out of him, meaning of course he used them at every opportunity-- when a weighted net flies at him from the shadows. Months, because it had to be months at this point, right?, out of the field and his reflexes are dulled. Not that it'd help, he has nothing to cut the net, but he may have been able to catch or redirect it somehow. But no, because he'd gotten used to training only in the training room and only when Slade deemed it, and he's as good as a winged bird. Useless. 

Reality, and the ground, bring him harshly back to his senses. The rope is heavy around his body, tying his arms tight to his sides, calves to his thighs. Without a birdarang or knife, he's stuck fast. 

That, in of and by itself, is more than enough to form a ball of icy dread in his stomach.

The high pitched, insane laughter echoing around the alley he finds himself in… well, for the first time since he snuck out of his room, Robin is considering praying that Slade was awake, that he was aware of Robin's escape attempt and was on his way. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for death of unnamed character(s). Only one semi-graphic.   
> Slade’s still not a nice guy, guys :3

Slade wasn't on his way. Slade was dealing with the computer, the system that should up and running instead of attempting to let loose a virus aimed at his secure files. He'd manage to find it in time, but the thing was tricky, mutating everytime Slade thought he had a handle on it. An hour after he first noticed, and he's just finishing up, going through routine system checks to ensure there were no other nasty surprises.

Most of the features were unaffected, quietly running in the background. Only a handful were corrupted: the palm scanners, door alerts, a few unimportant extras he could fix later.

Someone was going to pay for this. Dearly pay, and if Richard wasn't safely in his bed… blood was going to be spilled. Grimacing at his protesting back, because even his enhancements weren't made for hunching over a desk for hours at a time, a small flashing dot catches his attention. One of his alerts had been silenced, the proximity alarm set for the warehouse. Likely, in this area, it's a stray animal, but he clicks the icon anyway, replaying tape that had been caught a fair while before, when he would have been elbow deep in his code, too busy to pull away for a low level warning. 

It's not a stray.

Slade first sees a flash of purple, and then a clean ash gray suit, the rotten, burned flesh jarring after the sharp lines of the suit. Harvey Dent and Joker. Outside of Gotham? Nothing good can come of this. They may be just passing through, stopping by to pay respect to the largest fish in Jump City's criminal pond, by Slade isn't sure, instinctually going still and quiet as the tape rolls. Focused, deadly, everything around him ceases to matter, staring at the screen with a sniper’s intensity. Why are they daring to intrude on his territory? He doesn't need to wait long, from the time stamp it was only five minutes after he sent Richard to bed when the boy is on screen, jumping out of the opened warehouse door and getting captured moments after appearing. 

A furious growl echoes in his darkened room, office chair clattering to the floor when his violent surge to his feet upends it. The calm in the center of a hurricane, Slade allows his thoughts to cascade over him, never letting one grab too much of his attention.

That's the first thing he's talking to the boy about, the brat didn't even look before swinging out, like the entire world was safe, like he was back in his stupid tower, where criminals _knew_ to keep their bloody hands off--

Slade stops himself from that line of thought. There's no time for that. 

Slade, not bothering to glance in Richards room to ensure this was real, changes into his armor with a speed driven with fury. Two Face and Joker… he had never fought either of the men before, but that didn't mean overmuch. Joker was out of his mind and Dent wasn't much better. 

Plans rise and fall in his mind's eye, easier than breathing, and his single eye is cold when Slade stalks down the hallways. The doors slip neatly out of his way, system not fully rebooted yet. 

“Will!” Slade barks, barely pausing by the kitchen door. He's unsurprised to see his friend already alert, he was hardly quiet while pulling on his gear, and he suspects he's still furiously growling under his breath. Those two common thugs had _no business_ touching his apprentice. Richard was _his_. “Richard's been taken. Two Face, Joker. Lab, fabricate the serum, not sure what shape he'll be in.”

There's no resentment of Slades brisk orders, Will simply nodding, his face creased with the unspoken worry. Kidnapped. Richard was kidnapped. His irritation with Slade would keep until the boy was safely returned. 

Orders given, Slade nods sharply, turning on his heel and disappearing up into the garage. 

This isn't the leisurely jog he used to collect their belongings from the old lair. It’s all about speed, the wind sneaking around his mask to snatch breath from his lips, the momentary press of gravity between each long push forward, how buildings are only minor annoyances. He's running, hard enough it may have been too much for an unenhanced human’s heart to sustain. He ignores it, forces his way forward with each needlessly difficult beat. 

He's not going to lose this time.

“Deathstroke.” Wills voice carries perfectly clear in Slades ear, a brief grunt the only reply before the man continues. “The trackers you embedded in Robin's clothes are transmitting, there's also a video message addressed to you. Shall I play it?”

That explains why Will is using coded names, if there's even a slight chance someone was listening in. It doesn't sit right, logically he knows the boy is Robin to the majority of the city, and likely to the boy himself, but all he can see is Richard. The young man who was fiercely independent, until he was allowed to be little and then so desperately needy. 

“Play it.” He instructs, instead of thinking about Richard, about how small he was, wrapped in bandages. If there's a single hair out of place…

“Deathstroke.” Dent speaks first, low and cultured. Just like a politician, Slade sneers, adjusting his position as Will helpfully sends the trackers information. He's headed towards the civilian harbor, where the rich store their yachts whenever they can't be bothered. “Sorry to miss you, but we heard you had a special little birdy in your hands. We're quite eager to meet him, and when we heard you were… relocating, we just needed to help you out. Bring us everything you know about Batman and you may be able to save the little bird. He's been quite tight lipped about his partner in the past, hopefully his time in your care has softened him up some. Don't bother trying to follow that sneaky little tracker he had, that's floating down in the bay right now. I trust you'll make the right choice, we will contact you with a time and drop off point... If Joker doesn't get too carried away playing with his new toy before then.” 

The message cuts off with a final sounding click and it's all Slade can do not to rip off his mask. It feels too clinging, too much like he can't get free. He closes his eye, knowing exactly what he'd see if it was open: his sons face, frozen in terror right before a bullet rips through his skull. Or, perhaps, his other son, Joeyt: running beside him, one of the first and only missions the boy was allowed to go on. At least he can pretend his harsh breathing was inspired solely by the run, and not the sudden choking grip of emotion around his neck. 

It's all too similar to what happened nine years prior. Too close, and he vaguely acknowledges he may not be the most stable state he's been in.

“Deathstroke.” Will’s voice follows, cautious across the line. “We have--”

Slade cuts him off.

“We have favors to call in. Do it. All of them, I don't care.” For a man who curries favors and debts as part of a lifetime's effort to rule the top of the food chain, Will doesn't seem overly surprised to hear the order, murmuring a soft confirmation. Let the butler do that. Slade will not return until he has Richard under his arm. 

  


They have him. 

Joker and Two Face. 

Though they haven't touched him, --yet, a voice whispers in the depths of his mind-- he's face down, tied to a cold flat table. Its large, and propped against a wall, he can't brush the edges with his fingertips, can't feel the floor no matter how he stretches. His torso is bare, horror stiffening his limbs as Two Face easily stripped him. He was even denied a chance to speak, a strip of fabric shoved into his mouth and another tied around his skull to keep it in place. Not that he would. These two, maybe separately he'd have a prayer of staying composed, but together…? There's no chance, his tongue is stiff and uncooperative like a block of wood in his mouth. 

“Little Birdie~” No, not that voice. Robin chokes on a muffled denial, thrashing what small amount he is able to. That dangerously bubbly, unhinged joy, that voice dances in blood spray and it would be laughable, if he weren't so cunning. Cold fingers, like ice, trace up one of the longest scars Robin has, from shoulder to hip and furiously purple-red no matter the passage of time. “Birdies been playing with someone else. I don't like that.”

He pouting, sugar sweet poison to match the caress of his fingers over long healed pain. A grunt is forced from Robins sealed lips, as Joker digs his nails into a particularity knotted section of scarring. 

“It’s  okay, Daddy Bats managed to save you last time, but now I have you all to myself, far away from your nest.” 

Robin tries to thrash again, knowing it amuses the man and yet helpless to do anything about it. He's trapped. In his worst nightmare. And, even if Slade manages to find him… Who's to say he wouldn't just hurt Robin worse? For escaping?

There's a flash of movement, distracting him, Two Face in the doorway, fingering a tiny flash of metal, leaving his hand and being snatched midair. 

“Sorry, Robin. Not your lucky day. Let's give it fifteen minutes, see if your luck changes.” 

No. Oh _No._

It's too late, Joker gives a stomach turning laugh, and even Two Face's mangled slash of a mouth twitches up at the fear painted clearly on his face.

Batman! Slade!

_Anybody help!_

  


It takes too long. 

Slade is more animal than man, a snarling mass of fury and death. He takes out the men he hired, ruthlessly, until one finally gives. Joker has his family, and so the man would do anything the clown asked. Anything, even infuriating one Slade Wilson. The blatant fear did little to sooth Slade, gaining all the information he could from the sniveling man before standing. There's a gun in his hand, heavy and familiar, warm already from both the discharge and his body, and the traitor whimpers when it pushes against his forehead.

There's a puddle on the floor, shameful, disgusting, and Slade fills his voice with all the scorn he can muster. 

“I respect you're a man who is willing to do whatever it takes to protect his family. Unfortunately for you, so am I.”

He's on the move before the body finishes falling, gaze empty and cold. At least the man had given Slade what he needed to find where Richard was being kept. 


	27. Chapter 27

It was easy to get into, across the city, a residential suburb. It may have been the family man's house. Slade doesn't particularly care, crouching by a basement window, tiny and with the glass artfully warped. Not warped enough, however, that he cannot see a figure tied tight to a large piece of wood, red over pale skin. That had _better not_ be Richard. 

The window is too small, Slade cannot pass through. But, in the back, there's a door. Likely booby trapped, but Slade doesn't care. He's made it past more threatening men while having less to lose.

That doesn't mean it's easy, Slade’s slightly winded and the house is less than structurally sound when he's done, but it _is_ Richard tied to what looks like a repurposed tabletop. He's in… less than perfect condition, but not as bad as Slade has feared. Bruises, a few more perfectly circular burns. And, it looks like Slade found the perpetrator for Richard's scarred back. Even among criminals, a whip is largely considered an obsolete integration tool. To see it used on his apprentice, fresh welts crossing over his back… if he hadn't already decided the two Gotham men would be dying tonight, seeing Richard like this would have sealed their bloody fate.

“Mmmphf!?” He's aware someone is near. Good. A glimmer of approval sparks deep in his chest and Slade keeps his footsteps quiet, edging just into Richard's line of sight. The relief in his gemstone blue eyes, and the frantic sounds behind the crude gag, urge Slade forward like few things had ever done. Still, his hands are steady when they pluck out the gag, untying the ropes and steading the boy as he sways. 

“Stay here, stay quiet. Understand?” It may have been the fear, it may have been the relief, may be the pain, but Richard isn't fully with Slade at the moment. His vision is cloudy, unfocused. Perhaps, just the smallest bit little. Which, is not helpful. The boy nods, looking lost and confused. 

It makes something inside Slade's chest twist uncomfortably, reaching out a hand to gently cup the side of the boy face, letting his thumb brush a calming circle over the skin there.

“It's alright, you're being good.”

He can't stand lying to himself anymore. Richard is, somehow, much more than that. Using him as a weapon, as a tool, is wrong. Just, wrong. Slade never concerned himself with morals or ‘the right thing’ but he has his own code, he has his own honor. And now he sees it.

Harming Richard in any way, no matter the trouble or defiance the boy gets up to, would be violating his code in the highest order. He just can’t. He won’t. Nothing has changed in the past minute except his perception and yet Slade’s entire world has just been flipped on its head. He can’t allow anymore time to dwell on it, Richard is already slipping further, losing the tentative grip he has on his older mindset. Considering how Slade reacted to his own triggers, the boys is holding up admirably well and now is not the time to try and push him further. 

He has some vengeance to wreak upon the fools who dare touch what is his.

Robin know he’s being weak, can’t help it. His older mindset, his correct mindset, is sliding through his hands like oil. He just can’t get a grip on it. Slade appearance didn’t help either, coming in from the well lit basement stairs after what feels like ages, dust being shaken from the exposed rafters at an alarming frequency. And when the man does arrive, panting harshly and moving like a starving predator, Robin can’t feel any of the paralyzing rage he did at the other escape attempt. In fact, Slade is downright gentle, reaching out in a now familiar move to cup his face, soothing some of the panic thats bubbling under his chest. Not all, because he’s still trapped, his back still hurts, and surely Slade is going to do _something_ about this and he already hurts too much to even think about what Slade’s going to do. 

So, he sits. Tries to breathe, stays as quiet and still as he can. It makes sense, in a desperate kind of way. Maybe if he behaves, maybe if he does exactly what Slade says, he won’t be as angry. It can’t hurt… right?

That’s when the screams start.  

Which is worse? The screaming? The sudden stop? The violent, vicious contentment knowing they will never ever come after him again? Robin doesn’t know, but when Slade finally comes back down the stairs, he’s blood spattered. His mask is more red than orange and black, his uniform the same. 

“Little Bird, come on. We’re getting out of here.” It’s not quite a choice, even if he was able to make any choices right now. But it’s close enough Robin feels his breath catch in his throat, eyes darting from the bloodied hand being held out-- where did Slade’s glove go?-- to the door, to the slab of wood he was tied to. It’s hesitant, but eventually he slips his hand into Slade’s larger one, obediently stepping into the warmth as Slade lightly tugs him to the mercenary's side. He can smell the carnage as they mount the stairs, refusing to look, but silently knowing that it was his fault. Two men, awful, murderous, monstrous men they were; two living human beings were dead. Because Slade figured it out, because Robin didn’t argue, because Robin took their bait. Their blood is staining his soul just like it’s staining Slade’s hands. No amount of denial will change that. Just because he doesn’t look, refuses to acknowledge it, does not mean he is blameless. 

Thankfully, Slade seems to be just as unwilling to talk as Robin is. They go up and out, Slade hotwires a car, drives them back to the lair. It’s all too familiar. The still weirdly homey living room, Wintergreen hovering just inside the kitchen, tutting under his breath when he gently pulls Robin free from Slade’s side.

The old man's hands are incredibly gentle, brushing down his arms and flitting across his back, barely registering. Then again, not much is, not right now. Robin feels suspended in jelly, somewhere in his mind where no one can see him, no one can hurt him.

“Has he said anything at all?” The question is directed to Slade, Robin distantly grateful as he turned one way then the other, WIntergreen’s hands soft as they direct him. 

“No. I think shock. And being on the cusp of his headspace.” Another soft, understanding noise, and Robin is being lead to the kitchen, gently sat down facing the back of the chair, so Wintergreen can get a better angle to treat his back. 

“The people who did this?” They avoid naming names, but Robin still knows who they’re talking about, shivers violently without Slade’s body heat. 

“Taken care of.” That should not be as reassuring as it is. Blankly, Richard lets his wounds be taken care of, silently. Slade’s in the kitchen, going through the now familiar movements of preparing the milky tea, adding a dash of cocoa powder and more sweeteners than he had before. If Richard was in shock, the added sugar would help prevent a crash, along with the rich fatty cream and heat. It’s a tried and true method, and should help settle his stomach as well. They’ve had a few incidents since the first bottle Slade gave him, and the man would rather avoid having another repeat. The strain it put on the young boys body is entirely unwelcome.

When it comes to choosing the vessel, however, Slade hesitates. A bottle may be pushing the boy too far, but Richard certainly look like he wasn't prepared to hold his own head up, much less hold a cup steady. It only takes one, near silent sound of pain to make his decision. Slade pours the drink into the modified baby bottle, screwing the top on tightly, and stepping close to where WIntergreen is injecting the healing serum into Richards arm. Good. That will help, and quickly. 

“Richard. Do you feel up to drinking this for me? You need to get something in your stomach.” The explanation is seemingly unnecessary, Richard is nodding, avoiding Slade’s gaze. He’d been doing that before, but it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing really feels the same. It leaves Slade distinctly wrong footed, awkward. “Alright.”

He doesn’t flinch when Slade picks him up, mindful of his back, and settles him onto Slade’s lap. He doesn’t curl closer either. It’s disturbingly like holding a mannequin, where the lights are on but nobody’s home behind those eyes. Slade doesn’t like it, knowing something is wrong but being wholly unprepared to deal with either the cause or his reaction to it. 

Richard drinks the entire bottle, uncaring as Slade hums, low in his throat and like he’s not fully aware he’s doing it. It’s been a frantic few days since the boy was taken and while he could go longer, his body is tired. He’s more than half asleep when Will gently touches his shoulder, Richard lightly dozing on his other shoulder. Of course the boy wakes at even the slight motion, but only long enough to blearily look up at Slade before he relaxes again.

“Wha..?” Around a yawn, Slade questions his old friends motives, adjusting Richard in his arms. It’s difficult to remember the boy is safe, without constantly checking the thin chest is still rising and falling every few seconds. 

“You’re falling asleep. You’ll be fine after a few minutes, but Richard won’t be happy if you don’t get him settled in a proper bed soon.” At least the tension that was between them had faded. Between Slade’s clear concern and Will’s own fears, it didn’t seem as important to continue an argument that couldn’t be fixed until the child was returned. And now… it was more important for the two to get a halfway decent night’s rest.

Slade, waking rapidly, makes a face. There’s an irrational desire to keep Richard close, to refuse to relinquish his hold. Richard is fragile, feels even more so compared to Slade’s enhanced power.

It takes far more willpower than it should to lay Richard down on the sheets, to turn and walk away. And, if he can’t quite close either of their doors fully… That’s his own problem. This way, he reasons, even if Richard does manage to gain the energy to try another escape, Slade would be able to hear him far before he was able to get out. He’s not entirely sure what it says about him, that he’s fully aware of the lie and just as fully doesn’t care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLLLLLLLY!  
> FINALLY  
> SLADE IS ADMITTING IT. HE SEES.  
> Also. Mizu. If youre seeing this... WhY!!!?????


	28. Chapter 28

Later, he’d be grateful for the irrational need to ensure he was easily reached if Richard should require it. It had been late when they returned home, later still when Will had woken him and sent them both off to bed. It must have been so early it was late when a fear stricken cry wrenched Slade out of sleep with the same delicacy of a bomb in a china shop. His katanas are in his hand, edges glittering in the low light let in by the hallway, before the scream sounds again. It’s coming from Richards room. 

Slade moves without consciously ordering his body to, down the hall and shoving the door tp Richards room easily. It's still dark, however, until he flicks on the light.

The flood of light reveals nothing. No enemy, no weapons, nothing that should have drawn such a sound from Richard. Slade, a swift glance to ensure Richard is in his bed, tears across the room, pulling open the closet and scanning the bathroom for any possible threat before he turns to the boy again. 

“Richard.” And his voice is harsh, far too harsh for the room. But adrenaline is pounding thick and hard in his veins, every shadow looks like a threat, and Richard is still sitting there, breathing hard. Little muffled sounds, tapering off into suspiciously high pitched whines. He isn’t… He is. Richard is crying, gasping for breath as Slade watches, flinches away from Slade when he cautiously attempts to come closer. 

“No! I-I’m s-s-sorry!” What is he talking about? He’s half out his of his mind with fear, clearly, and Slade tries again, sheathing his sword and holding out his hands calmly. It should help, should show he’s not here to hurt him, but Richard only whimpers louder. His eyes are bloodshot, he’s hyperventilating. Slade has to calm him down, and fast.

“Richard, Richard. I need you to listen to me.” He can’t. He’s too far into his fear to hear Slade, to see him as an ally. To see. Slade stops, freezing in place halfway between the door and the bed. He could… Consequences and rewards swirl across his mind's eye. 

Calculations of risk and reward. In the end, however, only one thing holds sway.

Richard was going to make himself sick if he continued like this. He was too far gone to be helped with anything but a drastic measure, something that would shock him right out of the cloying fear, and Slade already knows he can’t possibly strike the boy. Even if it was a well acknowledged tactic. Slade couldn’t stomach it. Instead, heart still pounding a frantic tattoo against the cage of his ribs, he brings both his hands up to his face. His mask, his barrier between the boy and himself. It kept the balance of power more firmly in Slade’s hands, kept mystery and threat and made him more than human. 

Right now, being more than human is exactly what Slade needs to avoid. 

It’s still difficult, to pull the metal free. Richard is still crying, still terrified, but the movement catches his curiosity. He even gives a little gasp when he realizes Slade’s intentions, eyes edging a sliver wider when Slade actually sets the metal aside. 

“Richard, listen to me. You have to breathe.” Like he could breathe now. Slade basically just stole all of his breath. Took it right from his chest. He can’t actually believe this is happening, it must be another nightmare, but his imagination has never been able to paint a picture of Slade’s face and there’s no denying that’s exactly what Robin is seeing right now. 

It’s...weird. He doesn’t look old. Doesn’t look cruel. Besides the shock of white hair, and the scarred mess where there should be a matching blue-grey eye, Slade mostly looks tired. Like he’s seen too many things in too short a life to even understand any of it. His jaw is strong, lines that may have once been from laughter, a nose crooked in a way Robin knows all too well. All vigilantes do. All in all… He looks nothing like the thing from the nightmare Robin had violently woken from too many nights to count. This man… he looks almost normal. Almost, there’s a glint to his eyes, a prowl in his steps that fairly scream his danger to the world… But overall, he’s just a regular looking guy, meticulously trimmed white hair the one exception. 

“Done staring?” Robin jerks, because now he can see the dry humor, how Slade lifts on side of his mouth in the smallest smirk he’s ever seen. He can hear Slade without the interference of the metal slits. Absently, he notes he’s no longer panicking, curiosity winning over his fear. 

“...Slade?” 

“Yeah, kid?” That's the first time he's been called that, and Robin frowns a little more, head tilting to the side like that would help him understand. Or, maybe like that would put Slade back to how he was meant to look.

“Your mask?” He's so far out of his depth its adorable, and Slade is barely able to halt his smirk growing. That's going to be an unforeseen complication. 

“What about it?” Its too easy to tease the little bird, now that it's clear the panic attack is fading, and he seems a little more aware. And because it makes Richard scowl, something Slade probably find annoying. Fortunately, he is content to watch Richard move, surprise echoing across his face when there was no pain.

“You took it off. Why? And you healed me?” An unasked question hangs heavy in the air: Why had Slade healed him? It probably seemed out of character, based on how he reacted last time. 

“Because I saw fit to. And, yes. I did.” No more information than Richard asked for, and it left more questions than it answered. Eventually Richard will learn to be more precise, to ask thitngs in such a way to seperate the answers he looked for. Until then, Slade will happily make take advantage of the opportunity to rile the little bird's feathers. 

Crystalline eyes dart to the door, then back to Slade, curious and untrusting in the same measure. 

“I don't understand.” He finally admits, his pout audible though his head drops forward. 

“You don't need to. I've told you before, all you need to focus on is heeding my word.” What is Slade playing at? Even delivering what sounds like a very, very light scolding and he's still being gentle, still letting Robin get a good, long look at his face. After Robin nearly got away? It doesn't make any sense. He must be playing some kind of mind game… trying to make Robin do… something.

Its Slade, after all. There's a hidden motive to his hidden motives. 

It's hard not to react, however, when Slade stands closer, bringing a chair to the bed's edge. Its non-threatening, deliberately so. 

“What was your dream about?” Like he can't guess… Well guess one part of it. Robin's still too raw, shaking his head and avoiding Slade's too-knowing eyes. “Come on, kid, it doesn't do anyone a favor if you keep it to yourself.” 

He has what Robin has started calling ‘the dad voice’. Batman used to have that too, in front of newspapers or Robins teachers. It was a useful trick, turning on the warmth in his voice, guiding Robin with an easy hand on his shoulder. But here, with no one watching but them, why is Slade bothering? 

“It’s nothing important, Slade. And I'm not a kid.” It wasn't ‘nothing important’ though. It's lingering, promising a near sleepless night even if he does manage to return to slumber. He shivers, pushing away the images that want to consume him again. It's not real. It cannot be real. Because… they're dead. His parents are dead. And because of that, they will never hug him, never brush his hair from his eyes or tell him they love him. They'll never see the good he's doing in the world, or hold him when something bad happens. How is he meant to find the words? To explain how torturous that was? Wintergreen and Slade both call him a child, but, truthfully, he hasn't been. Not since he was given to a nighttime vigilante and began to witness the casual tragedies of the world.

Tears burn, in the back of his already sore throat, and in his eyes. He can't help it. Its selfish of him, mean and dirty and _wrong_ , but he doesn't care how many people he's saved. He doesn't care he's more aware of the world now, doesn't want how it shaped the person he is now. He wants his parents back. He'd trade everything he has learned, every skill, every tool he's used. If it meant he could even have them for a mere five minutes, Robin would gladly still his heart in his chest.

He can’t put that into words, though, even if he had the breath or the inclination to do so. 

A minor miracle, Slade stays quiet. He just… sits  there, not expectantly, not impatiently. How can his presence, simple and unflinching, make it worse? How can it expand the throbbing edges of the wound in his chest? Never healed, mostly scabbed over and forgotten about, he can't push it away anymore, the first hot tear rolling down his face.

Slade doesn't mention it, not as it falls, not as others join it, not as he tries and fails to scrub then from his face. Slade doesn't say anything at all. No meaningless platitudes, no “it could be worse”, no “its the past, let it stay there”. He was allowed to cry, to mourn, until his eyes run dry. 

It doesn't fix him, doesn't even come close, but he's feeling… slightly better when Slade offers a folded square of fabric, soft against his aching eyes. “Still don't want to talk about it?” It's quiet, rough, like Slade has his own lump in his throat, but it comes across clear. Robin's too worn for another argument, shaking his head. Slade sighs, long and drawn out, but like he knew the answer already and was merely disappointed to have it confirmed. “One day, you should. I am the last person who should be giving advice for this, but it would help, to at least get the images out of your head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once guys, listen to Slade. If youre having trouble, talk to someone. I can almost promise having the dreams out and in the air will be much better than stuck in your head


	29. Chapter 29

“You’re right. You are the last person who should be giving advice. Any advice.” What is possessing him to tempt fate yet again tonight? Robin doesn’t particularly want to end up getting beaten again in less than twenty four hours since Slade took him out of that awful place. So why is he curling his lips into a snarl, glaring at Slade from the corner of his eye? Why are his fists curling, his body tensing in both anticipation of a blow and the need to fight. It’s a trap, fear and defiance pulling him sharply between launching himself at Slade, fingers like claws, or cringing away, trying to escape the maelstrom that is coming. He’s too off balance, forcing himself to relax only to notice moments after he’s strung tight, white knuckled with the sheets bunched under his palm. Slade, however, doesn’t react violently, a glare sharp enough to send Robin back deep into the pillows but then… he glances away.

“Watch your tone, Richard.” How many times had he done less, gotten worse? It can’t be right. Slade didn't even sound that annoyed. It wasn’t fair. Robin glares, setting his teeth and daring to try to make eye contact with the lounging man. He’s doesn’t have quite enough strength to make it, settles for picking one of the surprisingly few scars littering the man’s face. “And stop pulling that face at me, now. Before I get seriously annoyed.” 

Of course he’d end up being threatened. It’s tempting to say something, to test what the man means, but despite the roiling queasiness in his stomach, Robin is tired. He can fight with Slade later. Right now, he just wants to sleep.

“Fine.” It’s little better than a snarl, a smooth explosion of muscle as he pushes off the bed, turning to face the wall and get away from the headboard in the same easy movement. And, if it ends with his arms crossed heavily over his chest? That’s a coincidence, nothing more.

“Richard…” Slade’s sounding dangerous again. Like he’s reaching the invisible threshold of tolerance set aside for dealing with Robin. 

“Just go away, Slade. I’m sorry for disturbing your beauty sleep. God knows you need it.” The sudden, crushing silence from behind him cannot be good. How had Slade heard it? The last sentence was barely loud enough for his own ears to catch, and he was the one saying it!

“Repeat that.” Yep. Gone right past the threshold and now Robin is knee deep in trouble, and sinking fast with each and every second that passes where he does not obey Slade’s near whispered order. What he should be doing is apologizing, surrendering. Taking his hits and hoping Slade gets tired and walks away. That’s what he should be doing. But the words are stuck fast in his throat, too tight for both the words and his pounding heart, and what comes out is near suicidal.

“You heard me.” Is he stupid? Or just taking momentary leave of his senses? Robin honestly can’t say, body as frozen as he wishes his big, stupid mouth would have been. That, unfortunately, lasts only as long as it takes for Slade to lay one, heavy hand on his shoulder, the steel strength behind every digit already forcing him to turn. The intensity of his sudden, overwhelming hate for the man surprises Robin, in an absent far-away kind of way, and before he quite realizes what he’s doing, he’s on his feet, and Slade is reeling back. A vivid red fist shaped mark blooms high on Slade’s cheek, bright against the pale skin. It’s healing even as Robin watches, but he doesn’t quite care. Slade has touched him for the last time, has inflicted his will and his demands one too many times. The fact he landed a hit on Slade says more about Slade’s surprise and apparent exhaustion than anything about Robin, because now he’s standing, eye narrowed and lips compressed to a fine, furious line. 

“Richard. What is getting into you? You’ll stop this nonsense now!” So that's what Slade’s angry face looks like. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Robin notes with surprise just how little it actually changes his features, mostly freezing each muscle. In response, because he knows what’s coming next, the fists, the pain, the eventual breaking point where he _begs_ Slade for mercy only to find none, he bares his teeth, crouches into a more defensible position. For once, Slade being taller gives put the older man at a disadvantage. 

Robin can move easier now, he can twist away when Slade is forced to bend to try and get at him. All he has to watch for is the man’s bare feet, watch the surroundings for a useful tool. Ignore the nagging instincts to try and bluff his way out.

It’s one of the most important lessons Slade’s beaten into his head: when to listen to his basic urges and when to acknowledge that they are an obsolete anchor holding him down. Maybe there’s a glimmer of approval in Slade’s grey orb, maybe it’s the fury reflecting weirdly. Whatever it is, their eyes lock, long enough Robin is almost distracted when Slade makes his move. Almost. Slade’s foot lashes out, crashing into the bedside table and making the empty drawers rattle hollowly. Robin dodges, sideways, and scores a blow to Slade’s calf, allowing a ghost of a smile when Slade grimaces as he puts weight on it. That’d be a fight ending blow, then, on a regular criminal. 

He cannot forget how strong he’s gotten, how deadly he is. He loves it, and hates both himself and Spade that he takes any enjoyment at all from it. 

“Richard! Stop this!” Slade snaps, glaring down as Robin nimbly leaps away. “What's gotten into you!?” 

He doesn't respond. Maybe if he doesn't, maybe he can make this last longer, maybe he can--

“Gah!”

Slade has him, a hand around his neck, lifting him effortlessly into air, only to slam his back into the featureless deep blue wall. 

“No!” He's screaming. Why was he screaming? Robin can't quite remember, pulse hammering in his veins and breath feeling sandpaper rough as he tries to breathe as deeply as he can. Which, unfortunately with the impact of the wall, and then Slade leaning forward, glaring down at him, there's precious little air for him to access.

“I do not know what's gotten into you, Richard. But I have not and will never tolerate that kind of behavior!” He doesn't say anything further, and Robin braces himself for the pain. But… none comes. Slade merely holds him in the air for another few seconds, before slowly lowering him, feet brushing the floor, Slade holding him upright until he regains his balance. And Slade leaves. Just. Leaves. The door is still left slightly ajar, hallway admitting a stripe of yellowish fluorescent light to lay on the softly carpeted floor. 

That was… entirely unexpected. Robin _should_ have felt relief. Like he dodged a bullet and thanking his rarely seen lucky stars. Instead, a hot rush of helpless anger fills him, making him grit his teeth and glare sullenly at the wall he was just shoved up against.

“Thanks for nothing.” His mutter, dark and vicious, is aimed at nothing and everything all at once. 

It's a long time before he moves, and only then to curl onto his bed, in the center and over the stupidly soft covers. 

  
  


Morning comes and goes without acknowledgement from anyone in house. It's only later, well past noon, when Robin's door opens, Wintergreen slowly entering. 

“Richard?” 

“That's not my name.” It's a tired argument, almost, he thinks, as tired as he is. Worn through, yet still sparking with defiance, anger. He feels off today, prepared to go down fighting, even though there's nothing to fight against. Yet. If Slade's good for anything, besides the improved training, it’s always giving Robin something to rage against.

“Its already past lunch, and i'm willing to bet you were not given much or anything while in Harvey Dent’s care. Come on, let's get you fed.” The old man continues as though Robin hadn't spoken, calmly reaching out to unravel Robin from the mass of blankets he found himself entangled in. Within moments, he was free, and standing easily on his feet. Whatever was in that injection last night, it worked. There was no longer any pain on his back, or where he struggled until his wrists were raw and red. He really should keep asking what’s in that stuff already, but as it is, he’s just mildly grateful and all the more irritated because he was grateful. 

“Where is Slade?” He demands, instead. 

“Richard.” There’s a mild censure in his voice, as Wintergreen rustles around in the large dark dresser, pulling out a muted outfit, the orange shirt less eye catching than all of the others. The shorts are also dark, a steel grey cotton that hits a little shorter than his knees.

It’s… comfortable. In a word. And, even though there is no more physical pain, he suspects any rougher material would not have gone over well, hyper aware of each place the material rubbed against his skin. Wintergreen gives him just enough privacy to get dressed, turning his back until Robin tries to get to the door without him.

The hand on his arm is both unsurprising, and unwelcome. Wintergreen stops him inches from the door, face held carefully in a quizzical frown. 

“Richard?” He questions, soft. Wrong. Robin hates it. How gently the older man speaks, how there’s no anger, no menace in his eyes. He’s one of the bad guys, he shouldn't look like an elderly grandfather, watching the newest grandchild misbehave. Anger bubbles up in his chest, taking over his hand to push off the restraint, mild as it is.

“Would you get your hands off me for two seconds!? I can walk!” He… Doesn’t exactly mean for it to come out that loud, that aggressive. And he really mean to make that look enter the elderly butler’s eyes. Shocked, and afraid. Or, he could just be imaging the fear. He… hopes he is, because if he’s not… What if he's just like _Them?_

“Richard!” Slade’s voice interrupts his thought, along with the hand grabbing at the back of his shirt, lifting him easily into the air. “What are you doing!?” 

His voice is low, furious, and Robin cowers from it. Before remembering just who he is, twisting around that grip, to glare at the man’s still uncovered face. Slade’s unimpressed, dropping him abruptly to his feet, with a dark look. A dark look that makes Robin’s heart beat faster in his chest, but Slade doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t even speak, just stands and glares, and the glare follows Robin when the older man jerks his head towards the door, silently telling him to get lost. 

Robin hates himself a little, that he goes easily, darting out of the door with the strange anger still burning just under his ribcage.

“Will, are you alright?” When the boy is safely out of earshot, Slade asks the question he truly wanted to know. Richard hadn’t put any technique into the rough shove, but there had been some power behind the boy’s angry hands. Slade was quite honestly surprised by it. He’d seen Richard mad, of course he had, but to actually lay hands on another human, one who was not perpetrating a crime? To resort to base violence for no reason? That wasn’t like him. 

“He barely touched me.” The way Will cradled his wrist told another story, one only reluctantly shared as Slade held out his own hand expectantly. There was already a bruise forming, reds starting to fade into purple. 

“Barely touched you?” Incredulously, but not without humor, Slade asks. “What set him off?” 

“I grabbed his arm.” Will smoothly ignores the sarcastic mocking of his own words, freeing his wrist from Slade’s grasp and rotating it gently, wincing when he hit a sore spot. “He startled and reacted poorly. I think something is off with him today…” 

“What?” It’s harder than it should be to resist the urge to take Will’s wrist again, growing harder when his friend winces again. What is up with the boy? Last night he had been… aggressive, yes. But that had been in reaction to Slade, finding the child in a vulnerable state of mind. Why would he continue to be so in the morning, when all memory of whatever frightened him should have passed? It doesn’t make sense, a phrase that Slade’s starting to suspect was invented solely for Richard, the boy nightmare. “What could possibly be so wrong with him, that he hits you?” He questions roughly instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU ARE SUCH A HYPOCRIT, SLADE


	30. Chapter 30

Will doesn’t comment on how hypocritical Slade is to say that, raising a single eyebrow before shaking his head. 

“He’s… aggressively defensive. As though he’s warring with himself, waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

“What other shoe? He’s been back for less than a day. There is nothing for him to be frightened of. If anything he should be grateful I didn’t--” There was something about watching Slade finally start to understand the boy. Will refrains from smiling, only partly because his wrist actually does sting fairly decently, as Slade stops talking in the middle of his sentence. It was a battle, though. The fighting and injuries were old the moment they started, Will was sick of it. And, if Slade was starting to understand the child… There may be a light at the end of this tunnel after all. 

“He… Thinks he’s in trouble for trying to run away?” If only Richard was able to see this: Slade, uncertain, searching for the correct answer. It’s a far cry from how the boy normally saw Slade, it may allow him to further understand as well. Unfortunately, Slade was nowhere near ready to allow Richard in that deep. Maybe one day.

“You’re going to have to ask him yourself, but we should at least go out there, and make sure he’s behaving himself.” He didn’t really think Richard would dare… But who’s to tell, with children, barely a teenager? They’re unpredictable, almost wild.

Thankfully, Richard had decided to behave himself. He was sitting at the table, arms still crossed over his chest and glaring a hole in the tabletop. Sullen, but quiet, as Will finishes making a late lunch, carrying it all to the table. He only sees Slade’s hesitation because he knows the man well, and because, unlike Richard who was now glaring at the plate of food, he was looking at Slade. The mercenary was looking at the boy, from the corner of his eye, refusing to look straight on and provoke a confrontation before he was ready. With a slightly curled lip, it was easy to pass off his features as frustration or disgust, and maybe it was-- just not directed at Richard. As always, Slade was resentful, not knowing what to do. Good practice for him, then.

  


“Richard.” Slade starts. Lunch was just about finished, the silence heavy and awkward. None of them had been willing to break it, however, until now. How was he meant to reassure him? If he was too soft, too forgiving, Richard would only attempt to run again. But, neither could he stand to beat the boy. Not after what he saw in that quiet suburban home. The thought of further staining his body with bruises was repulsive. And bringing more nightmares…? No. He had to balance this, had to be… stern. Stern but not overly strict. He had to-- Who was he kidding? That was not his place. Pushing past the now familiar ache in his chest, Slade allows his voice to harden again, sharpening his gaze as Richard glances over. “After you are done, bring your dishes to the sink and meet me down in the workroom.”

A little time to get rid of some of that nervous energy. An outlet that will prove Slade bares no further ill will. That will have to do.

  
  


The basement is already little more than crumbling concrete held together with bare strips of rebar and luck. Bruce allows his fist to fly anyway.

Richard had been so close. He’d been free. He had been free, until the corpses that had once been some of Batman’s greatest enemies had gotten a hold of him. Gotten a hold of him and-- He couldn’t think of it. He had allowed Richard his freedom, thinking getting him away from the blood and the messiness of Gotham was what he needed, that he had needed to heal, that he-- Batman draws a breath, allowing his other fist to strike at the concrete that had held his captive son. Robin-- Jason, was behind him, to provide cover should one of the deceased men’s minions think of coming by. Mostly, though, it was to spare his young eyes the grisly deaths that prove Deathstroke has no mercy. 

Bile, hot and bitter-sour, coats Bamans tongue, a thick film that taints the very air he breathes. At least it covers the blood-- mostly. The liquid was tacky, even a day later, and there was enough of it the tang of copper was just enough to peel through the bile. 

“Is Ri-- he dead?” It shouldn't be a surprise to hear his new, young, partner at his elbow. Even growing up in crime alley wasn't enough to acclimatize Jason to the sight of this much damage, horror and nausea fighting with his curiosity. And, Batman suspects, no small amount of sibling jealousy, or hero worship turned sour, though the two have never met officially. 

“No. I need to get back to the Cave to run tests, but I believe these are the remains of only two: Harvey Dent and Joker.” No matter how many years pass, Batman still hates he cannot find Jokers actual name. Giving in, calling him by the title he chose, felt like a defeat. “Deathstroke wanted him alive.” 

It's said more confident than he actually feels, because he's seen the how unhinged men like Slade Wilson could be when there was something they wanted, but Jason is already pale. He's already stepping closer to Batman's bulk, seemingly unknowingly. The child doesn't need to be scared further. Gently, though he knows his fingers rarely are in the suit, he takes Jason's arm, using it as a gentle but firm grip to guide the both of them out of the horror scene Slade left in his wake. 

It may be already too late to help Dick. The least he can do is protect the child still in his care. 

  
  


Robin stands as still as he can manage, hands hanging loosely by his sides. Slade makes another pass with the bo staff, skimming the top of his hair, but he will not move. He will not react. Slade frowns, the play of light over his bare face so different than the muted, deadly shine of his mask. It's… less terrifying.

Robin resents it. 

Resents Slade now seems to be _trying_ not to frighten him. None of the blows Slade threw had come close to landing, until he had had enough, tossing his staff to a corner and standing defiantly still, head tilted to let his eyes meet Slade's. He knows his are guarded, sharp and angry. It’s a sensation that's a living thing, glittering and deadly, a broken beer bottle in his anger drunk hands. Fighting though, is exactly what Slade wants. He wants Richard to rage, to throw himself against the bars of Slades will.

So he not going to.

He will _not react._ Even when Slade taps at his shoulder with the bo staff, he does not move. His face is twisted, a snarl of defiance, he'll take every hit, every blow, and he will not give the man the satisfaction of bending to his will. 

Eventually, Slade throws his staff down as well, and Robin _knows._ He knows what's coming, and the first fist to his stock still face is nearly a relief. He knew it. He knew Slade was exactly the same, he wasn't fooled by last night, by the near terrifying leniency he was shown this morning. 

“Slade!” Wintergreen. Robin thrusts himself into his elbows, glaring up at the old man who was now between Slade and Robin. He better move. Slade doesn't allow anything get between him and his goal. And right now? That goal is to make Robin bleed. He tries to tell himself it's not fear turning his stomach, that its relief that's bringing his breaths to be short and sharp. He can't quite force himself to truly believe it, painting harshly though it was only the single punch-- so far. 

“Move, Will. He clearly wants to be beaten, I'm merely giving him what he wants.” Slades voice is hard, cold. It makes Robin shiver, slowly coming back to himself. What… what did he just do? He's shaking, hands bunching and clenching in a failed attempt to hold steady. 

“That's not true! And you know it!” If possible, Wintergreen sounds angrier than Slade, slowly mirroring his movements, keeping himself between them. Slade is opening his mouth to retaliate, grey-blue eye glinting with his fury, but before he can, Robin interrupts.

“No! Let him after me! At least then it's gonna be over with!” He snaps, attempting to at least take his punishment on his feet, stoic and strong like the lessons Batman taught him. An arm like weather beaten steel, dubious on the surface but still with an immobile strength, shoves him back. He lands, hard, on his butt. And Wintergreen is still talking. Like he said nothing. Like he is nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a lot shorter than normal. Theres a fairly long bit, and believe it or not, this was the kindest place to cut.


	31. Chapter 31

“You promised, Slade. You would not raise your hand to him again. You _swore_ to me!” In any other circumstance, the vehemence in the old man's tone would have warmed Robin, would have calmed him. Now? It just pisses him off.

“He doesn't know what a promise is!”

“Shut your mouth, boy!”, Slade growls, full of menace, barely glancing at Robin being shoved behind Wintergreen again. “And what am I meant to do?! I'm attempting to help his ungrateful little--”

“Oh! _I'm_ ungrateful!? Well, you certainly don't need to deal with me! Show me to the door and I’ll--”

“Do not interrupt--”

”Richard!” 

The solid ‘thwap!’ of skin to skin stop both of them in their tracks. It takes a moment, but then the sting sets in and Robin yowls like an angry cat. Wintergreen, and he must have moved while they were yelling over the other, has his ear in one firm grip, the other reeling back to plant another swat on his other thigh, where his shorts had ridden up. 

“I do not tolerate such rude language!” Four more swats, two per thigh, are laid down. No amount of squirming can get his ear free, and Wintergreen refuses to let go, pulling when Robin starts to get violent. With such a delicate piece of skin in his grip, and his other hand delivering terrific wallops, it doesn't take long for Robin to stop trying to _fight_ and instead to _get away._

Slade watches in stunned wonder as the angry, resentful hero that was just glaring at him melts away, leaving a much more familiar struggling child. Richard's shoulders lose their diamond hard tension, and though most of his body language is still screaming anger and hate and fight, there's a certain sag in his shoulders, in how his hands scramble at without harming Will's grasp on him, how his knees look suspiciously weak, that all say relief. Like some weight has been removed from over his head. And, even as he watches, the anger is quickly leeching away from his face, to make room for pleading, as Will smacks his butt a few more times, before turning the boy to face Slade.

“Apologize!” He barks, in what Slade knows is Will's second-best drill sergeant growl. There's a moment when it doesn't look like Richard is going to, but when Will starts to draw back his hand for another round of smacks, Richard folds like wet cardboard. 

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay!?” It's far from respectful. But, perhaps most surprising, its honest. Slade pauses, eyebrow ticking upward in a rare display of open surprise.

Will’s looking at him. Expantly. Like Slade is meant to say something here, like there is anything Slade even can say here. But the look doesn't go away. In fact, it almost looks like Will's readying himself to come over and give Slade a few swats of his own. 

To prevent Will from embarrassing himself in the attempt, Slade says the first words that come to mind: blurting the question inelegantly.

“Why are you acting so rude?” He demands,  arms crossing over his chest. He's known the younger for a long time and, while never the height of poised, he's never seen the young man this distressed, this wild. Richard had… always acted more like a circus brat than a member of high society, but this was past that. This was desperate, frightened. 

Richard's not about to answer, however, and it takes two more spanks to skin even Slade can see is red hot and angry to shake the answer out of his uncooperative mouth.

“Because I'm angry!” He finally snarls, looking anywhere but at Slade. And Slade doesn't need Will's warning glare to know to handle the boy gently now, lifting his chin with one hand. And it's not anger he sees in those crystal, unsettling eyes, it's _fear_. He doesn't release the boy's chin knowing that, if he does, Richard will shut down again and it will be impossible to crack the mystery he didn't even know was present. Will’s earlier words, forgotten until now, come back. But… they don't compute, not exactly. If Richard was afraid, and it looks like he is, then why would he be deliberately provoking Slade?

“Lies.” He says, the words hanging onto a whisper of breath, ignoring how Richard tries to free his chin, the miserable shiver of his body as he desperately tries to protect whatever is tearing him up inside. His eye narrows, leaning down, to get eye level with the boy, watching his desperation grow as theres no where else to look. When he _needs_ to look directly at Slade, because there's nothing else there. 

It’s pathetically predictable his eyes slip shut, as predictable as their opening when Slade allows his hand to slip a little higher, cupping the side of Richard's face. It's worked since that first time, and it works again, an overwrought whine falling from bloodless lips as Richard silently begs for a reprieve.

And though, yes-- Blast it!-- it… hurts something in his chest, Slade doesn't relent. Those eyes will not sway him, and it must show. Because, after another too long pause, Richard slumps, no longer putting up even a token protest to Will's grip. 

“What do you want from me?” He asks, instead of an answer. And it's so broken, so defeated. It's not his Richard at all, and he gentles his voice without quite knowing it, a single finger tracing a soothing pattern over his skin.

“You're not angry. You're afraid.” Maybe he shouldn't be giving him the answers, maybe he should be making Richard be honest, but Slade is no longer looking at Will for advice, old instincts rising with the force of a hurricane. For once, they're free of the ghosts, the echoes of his children in the corners of his vision, and he can focus fully on the child starting to squirm again. “None of that. Tell me why.”

“No!” He probably doesn't even know what he's denying, and Slade finds himself making the kind of meaningless sounds he normally detests, a long hiss of air, broken into seconds of soothing sound. 

“Yes. Why are you afraid?” He insists. Keeping the eye contact, the hold on Richard's face.

“I-- I'm not!” It’s weakening. But Slade doesn't strike, does not _force_ the dam of truth he can feel just behind the boys stubborn silence. This… this one has to come from Richard himself. Whatever is going on inside him, if Will was right or if there was another layer to this frankly ridiculous child, he had to come out and tell Slade.

“You _are_. Tell me.” 

“I-- Just beat me if you're going to! Stop this- this- this- kindness stuff! You're just gonna hit me, stop making me wait for it!” Slade nearly asks again. That wasn't what he asked… or was it? It made sense-- if he looked at it from the completely illogical thinking of an emotionally abandoned and neglected child. Change was terrifying. Any habit, no matter how small or harmful, was something to be clung to. With all the force in their tiny, angry bodies. Richard understood the world in terms that more closely resembled that of a wild animal. Namely that humans, authority figures, were _not_ to be trusted. And that, if he were to fall prey to one, expect only pain… unless it benefited Slade in some way. 

Richard… He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the pain _Slade_ has taught him to expect. The knowledge is hard, cold, a thick lump of concrete freezing up his airways. It comes with no small amount of disgust, aimed deadly sharp at himself. 

It fit what Will had been telling him earlier, and what scarce knowledge he had on children. He could be was wrong… but he didn't think so.

What was going on? 

Robin feels like he's crossing an old rope bridge, where one wrong step would send him plummenanting to his death. And now Slade is smiling, a calculating gleam in his eye that makes apprehension wind up his spine like Poison Ivy's sentient vines. He's broken open, but… cleanly. Like, there was infection burning in his lungs and he burned it out with the angry words, like he threw it all out when he forced himself to actually order Slade to get it over with. And now Wintergreen is just handing him over to Slade, the grip on his ear finally, finally released in favor of the back of his neck, scuffed and under control like a naughty kitten. 

Slade doesn't say anything, Robin doesn't think he could even process if the white haired man did say anything, because suddenly they're in the cozy living room and he's being turned over Slades lap and--

“Ow!” He protests, head spinning. How-- how did this happen!?

“I have caused you a great deal of confusion, recently.” Is all Slade says, at first, low and almost inaudible over the sound of Slade lighting a fire in his rear. “I did not intend to. But I did. And I intend to fix that now. I will not beat you again, but there will still be consequences of disobedience and for the rudeness like you have shown both myself and Mr. Wintergreen today.”

How did Slade have such an iron hand!? Robin squirms, trying to keep silent. But it's hard, and little whimpers keep getting through his stubbornly clenched lips. 

“You don't need to be afraid anymore, Richard. You don't need to fight against me like this. You don't have to do all of this.” He says, voice like waves, cascading down to break on Robin's ears. There's no escape and he doesn't want to cry, he doesn't  want, he doesn't--

It’s over? Just like that?

Slade is standing him up, looking serious but quiet, just taking a look at his face. Robin, a little self self conciousenaly, wipes at his face, ridding his eyes of the start of tears. 

“Alright?” Slade is still talking, low and intense, and Robin doesn't have that irrational urge to fight anymore, letting his eyes fall to Slade's shoulder and nodding quickly. A momentary pause, and Slade grips his shoulder, squeezing with just a hint of his iron strength. “No more back talking, no more running. And at least try the training.” 

It's not a question, or an offer. Its It's an order and Robin nods before he can stop himself, pushing away from the hand still on his shoulder and towards the stairs leading to the kitchen. He… he should be more upset. He thinks. He knows he shouldn't be relieved over it, like a weight has lifted from his chest and he can breathe easily again. 

Should or shouldn't, that's exactly how he feels, slipping up the stairs like a ghost and nodding vaguely in Wintergreen's direction. The old man… isn't bad. He, he isn't bad, for someone who hangs around Slade. Robin can acknowledge that, at least.

“Richard, come here for a minute.” Before he can make a full tilt retreat, the butler gets his attention, motioning him closer. Unease first stills his feet, then tilts his head, looking across the wide, clean room. Even just saying how Wintergreen wasn't a bad guy, Robin couldn't help but feel apprehensive, hand half heartedly curling around the ear that the old man had earlier abused. 


	32. Chapter 32

“It's alright. Just come here.” This had better not come back to bite him where the sun doesn't shine, walking closer on deadly silent feet, the tile a shock of cold against the soles of Robin's bare feet. To his eternal surprise, Wintergreen doesn't grab his ear again, doesnt turn him to land more solid blows against his aching rear. Instead, age softened hands press against his shoulder blades, bringing him in for a--

For a--

For a hug.

The word is enough to short out his brain, too many conflicting sensations and memories, but the feeling…? The feeling of warmth, of strength, of being protected and cared for and _safe_ is a sledgehammer to the walls already cracked by Slade's hand in an embarrassingly childish punishment. Before he quite knows it, before he can deny it and pull himself together, Robin melts. His arms come up without his permission, and he's suddenly clinging to the man, fingers tight and bloodless where they grab at the back of the old man's suit. He's aging down too, spiralling down to a softer, gentler time, eyes blinking widely in the unexpected face of it. 

Wintergreen doesn't say anything, either, allows his body to speak for him, one hand pressing against the boy’s skull, fingers strong and swift despite their age running through midnight black strands. Tension bleeds from the boy’s shoulders, a tremble as his muscles relax for the first time in only God knew how long. Like air from a punctured balloon, Richard whines, pulling harder at the fabric that he has clenched tightly in both fists. Behind the boy, just now coming up the stairs, Slade’s sudden stop is telling just how far the man has fallen into caring for the boy. That is, if the fact he had removed his mask did not speak loudly enough. 

Suppressing a smile, Will shakes his head slowly, there's no danger, mouthing ‘little' at Slade. Slade, who frowns, taking a slow, uncertain step forward. He's unsure of his welcome, clearly, and Will rolls his eyes, freeing a hand from Richard's hair and waving Slade forward. Richard doesn't like the movement, whining again into Wills shoulder and barely tensing when Slade lays hands on his shoulders, thumbs running slow circles in the shivering muscles he finds.

“Everything alright in there, baby bird?” He asks, voice throaty and soft, pitched to barely carry over the soft sounds of the kitchen. Richard, just now registering Slade's presence, turns his face to the man, but keeps his arms tightly around Will.

His gaze is cold, assessing, half buried in Will and half watching Slade. He seems content to just watch, barely blinking as Slade holds his gaze.

“--'re mean.” Richard finally says, only one eye visible, falling strands of his hair forcing most of the azure orb into shadow. Slade frowns, tilting his head in an open gesture of curiosity. Richard's voice is half muffled by Will's shoulder, and the childish slur doesn't help. 

“Please repeat that, a little more clearly.” Will asks, soft and coaxing, rolling his shoulder just enough to make the young boy frown in irritation, lifting his head and looking directly at Slade. 

“You're mean.” He says again, slowly. It's more a flat statement of fact than an accusation, expression open, without the burn of distrust Slade expects. Slade who is not going to examine why his chest is too tight at that, or why he wants to turn away from that face. Instead, surprising both of them, he nods. Simply, slowly, careful not to startle the boy. 

“Yes. I have been.” For all he doesn't say it, there’s a promise in his voice, an apology that doesn't seem to be necessary to voice. But… when it came to the child, when had that stopped him? He pauses, taking another breathe and focusing on the muscles slowly calming under his touch. It anchors him, the knowledge that despite it all, Richard was still alive. And that Slade was determined to keep him as such. “I am… sorry, little bird. This all…”

How was he supposed to find the appropriate words? When Richard was looking at him like that? All calm innocence, expectant but with such low expectations it hardly mattered. It’s uncomfortable, wrong. He should have the answers, should be the one Richard could look to in times of unease. He was meant to be a pillar, strong and sure and solid. He pushes aside his unease, the quiet certainty he was making a mistake, the urge to resume the path he already knew; and forged ahead, taking a forceful breath and letting it go in an barely audible sigh.

“This is more than I had planned for, I am operating in unknown areas, and have foolishly taken it out on you. I apologize. And, as I told you earlier, it will not happen again. You are in no danger in this house, little bird.” And it's all true. Every word Slade says. So used to lies and misleading, his tongue feels oddly heavy, weighted with chains he willingly speaks, honor bound to follow this promise to the edge of the world and back. Richard, still in Will's arms, head on the older mans shoulder, thinks it over, still and barely blinking as he considers Slade.

Apparently Slade passes whatever test the little bird was conducting, because with a decisive nod, he lays his head back into Will's shoulder, but one hand reaches back and gathers a fistful of Slade's once crisp white shirt. His nails could do with a trim, where they dig into Slades stomach, but its it's a small discomfort and rather far away, compared to the small sigh the boy gives, looking around the room with bright, curious eyes. 

Slade realizes, rather abruptly, that until this point, the only interact he'd truly had with the little bird was right before said bird fell asleep. When the boys eyes were already sleepy, and all it took was some gentle coaxing to get him the rest of the way there. Now… there was none of that sleepiness in his gaze, and the smile playing around the corners of his mouth is equal parts mischief and innocence. Mischief that Slade doesn't know how to curb. Mischief that could--

“He'll be alright, Slade. And you can always toddler proof later.” Will is already releasing Richard at some minuscule protest, smiling slightly at whatever Slade's face is doing, watching the boy cling to the cabinets as he swiftly climbs up and disappears. Mostly, disappears. There's low laughter up there, joy lighting previously darkened corners. 

“Toddler proof for the son of a Bat and an acrobat?” Slade asks, raising an sarcastic eyebrow. That was just impossible, and if to underscore his point, a loud series of crashing erupts from up above, rarely used pans and other clutter crashing down in an apparently delightful cacophony, if the peals of laughter were any indication. Slade sighs, raising his hand to his forehead and momentarily regretting the fact that normal pain medication did absolutely nothing on his advanced healing. Advanced healing   _and_ advanced hearing, flinching minutely as a new mental something joins the pile on the floor, even louder than the last.

Oh _Joy._

  
  


By the end of the day, Richard is all tuckered out and snoring slightly where his head is nestled underneath Slade's chin. It had been… an exercise in the unknown, to say the least. Richard had wanted to be everywhere, see everything, try to put most of it into his mouth. All day, Slade had been chasing after the boy, despite rational thought dictating he was in no actual danger-- the boy was 13, after all-- ensuring he was safe, was kept somewhat entertained with pens and spare paper, tried not to flinch when he made enough racket even Will bowed out sometime earlier in the evening. Despite the late start, Slade is wishing for days end, so he could get some sleep. It was unexpectedly exhausting watching out for a child again, especially one who was acting as a toddler with a trained athletes body. 

“Finally got him to sleep?” Will’s voice, quiet in deference to Slade’s cargo, follows the man as he steps into the living area, smiling softly when Slade startles. Just slightly, the widening of his eye the only thing giving it away, but it tells Will Slade was entirely wrapped up in his own thoughts, likely concerning the sleeping boy, eye soft with unnamed emotion.

“No thanks to you.” There's no bitterness, no anger and yet… he's not as teasing as he would normally be, lost in thought with only the bare minimum attention to spare for their conversation.

Will waits, sitting in the plush armchair, sighing as cotton takes his weight. Even with Slade taking care of Richard for the majority of the day, it had been a reminder that he wasn't as young as he once was, when running after energetic children was fun, not a hassle. Still… There's something clearly on his oldest friends mind, so Will allows the silence to rein, wrapping around the three like a well worn blanket, waiting for when Slade feels like talking. 

It doesn't take long, Richard sleepily sighing in his sleep, curling closer to the man. 

“I'm not… ready for this… Am I?” Slade mutters, scarred hands incredibly gentle as they reposition Richard's head, a more natural angle to reduce the strain on the boys neck. “Not after…” 

The words don't need to be said, the ghosts of the past stubborn and painful for them both. 

“I'm going to end up breaking him, beyond what the serum can fix.” Every word is spoken with care, quiet conviction a steely thread in each softly formed word. “I can't be what he needs… can I?”

“Not right now.” Will allows, after a beat of silence, when it's clear Slade isn't going to continue. The living room is shadowed, draped in concealing darkness, but Will thinks he sees Slade flinch, just a little movement, instinctive and repulsed by the truth. Maybe he should feel bad about that, clearly upsetting his friend. He doesn't, remembering the fear for the boy's life,  the memories of so many bandages wrapping around delicate skin. “But you could be.” 

This time the shadows do nothing to mask Slade's reaction, head snapping up sharply to look at Will. Only a moment passes as he figures out what Will is saying, mouth turned down. 

“Could be? Will, you've seen what I've done. You've _stopped_ what I could have done. There's no coming back from that.” 

“And yet, there he is: sleeping on you. There's no going back, that's true. But you don't have to go back, relieving what's been done is helpful for no one.” He's no longer just talking about the Richard, and they both know it. “You can, and should, move forward, however. You cannot see it, Slade, perhaps because you don't want to, but you've already been changing because of that boy.”

At Will's sudden gesture towards said boy, Slade instinctively pulls him closer, hand cradling the vulnerable skin where the spine meets skull, protecting on instinct. Will doesn't restrain his smile, he couldn’t if he wanted to, Slade looking at his hands like they've somehow betrayed him, slowly opening and closing the one not holding Richard. 

“He's already meeting you halfway, Slade. Now you have to be willing to go to him. There's no more he can do for you. You have to do it yourself. For him, or for you. It doesn't matter, but like you said: you cannot keep going like this. One of you is going to break, and there's not enough glue in the world to fix a broken spirit.” 

They sit in silence, after that, contemplating the simple truths 

But the next morning, the forms Slade near violently fills out in front of Will feel a little like victory, and a whole lot like Change. 


	33. Chapter 33

“Well, how bout you an I bring this somewheres a lil more-- Slade!” The clear shock in Harleen Quinzel’s voice is a cheap appeasement for Slade's irritation at having to even be in Gotham in the first place, but he'll take what he can get, idly letting a few smoke bombs play between his fingers, letting his gloves and scaled armor flex subtly with each tiny movement. It's a silent threat, a warning to behave nicely and do as he wants. “I swear I don know nothin bout ya kid! I didn even know she was missin this time!” 

Behind his mask, Slade allows himself a smile. It looks like Harley does remember the last time their paths crossed, and was appropriately wary to face him without leverage. He shrugs, one rolling movement that pushes him off the wall and closer to the door, seeing a flash of deep green eyes widening in surprise as he stalks past Harley to shut the door in Pamela Isley's face. And that, while interesting, is going to have to wait to be exploited, turning back to Harley with an easy grace. 

“Glad to hear it, Harley. But that's not why I'm here.” He purrs, prowling around the hotel room slowly, keeping one eye on where Harley is standing uneasily in front of the single bed. 

“Then why are ya here, Mista Wilson?” She relaxes, but just slightly, well aware Slade wouldn't just drop by without a good reason. And what would be a good reason for him probably involved pain for someone like her. 

“I'm here about a little Robin.” He says, simply. It had been around a month, maybe two, since Richard had fallen asleep on him, since he started trying to find… help. Though that word burns like acid on his tongue, it's the only thing that applies. He had… attempted to find a currently licensed therapist. Each and every one, however, was either painfully afraid of him, or attempted to convince him to go to Arkham, where ‘there are more qualified personnel to assist you’. As if. That would leave Richard and Will painfully unguarded. Richard who had, while not exactly cooperative, had ceased acting out against everything Slade did or said. He still seemed wary of Slade, eyes tracking every movement, recoiling every time Slade glanced at him. He had nearly stopped training the boy entirely. At least until he finally figured out what the child meant to him, and how to get the hunted animal look off Richard's face. For now, Slade ran endless laps, did push ups and sit ups until he shone with sweat. Sometimes, Richard joined him, and tolerated the rarely spoken corrections, sometimes he sat awkwardly, just… watching. Sometimes it was unnerving, other times painful as it reminded him of another child, but most of the time it just was. Slade hadn't pushed for Richard to talk about the thoughts that always end up distracting him, had not laid a hand-- scolding or otherwise-- to the boy since his little… revaluation. And he wouldn't, not until he knew he had himself firmly under control. 

And if that meant standing in Harleen Quinzel's hotel room and interrupting what was surely a new budding romance, that's what he was going to do.

“Robin…?” Her pale blue, a washed out cornflower compared to Richard's rich sapphire, eyes widen. “I didn have anythin to do with that. Me an Mista J were already done, when he… Bats was…” She shivers, unintentionally and glanced over her shoulder, like the mere mention of the man would summon him. “Ain't seen that kinda behavior from ‘im before. Kept to his code but… An anyways, I'm on the straight an narrow now. Me an Ivy both.” 

She says it all hurriedly, like Slade is actually threatening her. He stops his pacing, tucking the smoke bombs back into their pouch on his belt, and crossing his arms over his chest.

“If I was here because I thought that, you'd already be dead.” He promises, allowing his weight to settle a little more onto his heels, calming his body language from the prowl it was a moment ago. Harley copies him, relaxing from the visible urge to run. 

“Then why are ya here? If not ta kill me?” She asks. It's Slades last chance to save face, to turn around and pretend none of this ever happened. But… this _was_ his last chance and Will was frankly right. Richard had met him halfway, it was time for Slade to take the next step.

“Because I need your help.” He finally allows, sinking onto the cheap faux leather office chair stationed by the equally cheap writing desk in the corner.  “Dr. Harleen Quinzel, psychiatrist's help. To be clear.”

The stunned look on her face was nearly worth the discomfort of this whole situation. 

  


It's Wednesday again. Slade's gone. Robin knows without opening his eyes. There's a different tension in the air, a kind of… waiting. Anticipation. Robin doesn't know where the man goes, just that he's gone for most of the morning, and is quiet and withdrawn when he does make it back to lair. On days like this, Robin steers clear of the man. 

Well, more clear than regularly. Since the day he was sp-- punished, and aged down, Slade had kept an almost obsessive distance between them. He didn't reach out to grip Robin's shoulder, or ruffle his hair, or correct his poor form as they ran through endless exercises. Part of him wants to be relieved at that, but most of him is missing the casual touch. Slade had even been refraining from punishing Robin at all, though admittedly he hadn't really attempted to seriously test that, taking the reprieve quietly. And, just maybe, if he finds himself wanting to avoid testing that forever… that's just natural. Right? Avoid pissing off the man who kidnapped him is just good sense… it's not like he's actually enjoying himself. 

He'll… admit, the schedule is nice. Devouring the books that appear on his desk, in all kinds of languages and on all kind of subjects, is nice. The quiet chats he has with Wintergreen, as they wash dishes or the old man teaches Robin how to cook, are nice. It's all… all that is nice. And he may or may not be thriving, just a little. He's gaining healthy, strong weight, and getting taller, the growth spurt he'd been waiting on finally coming.

So, despite the unease Slade still sometimes inspires, Robin is mostly content, if not a little resigned, to staying put. 

“Richard?” Will’s voice is clear through the heavy wooden door, waiting for Richard to give the all clear before pushing said door open. It was a compromise, Robin kept his room tidy and Wintergreen promised to wait for permission before entering. It's not perfect, not yet, but it's better now that he has some privacy.

“Morning, Wintergreen, Slade back?” Robin shrugs into a new shirt, keeping his back from the other man's sight mostly on habit. The scars, now that those who made them are dead, don't bother him as much as they used to. And both the older men have made it very _very_ clear they don't think less of him for the scars. 

“Not yet.” Robin hums, making his bed and stretching idly after he does so. He makes a face at the pile of books, he's already finished with them. Besides… he's kind of sick of reading, an energy crackling along his bones, wanting the push and pull of sparring, or the quiet exhaustion after hours on the acrobatic equipment. But Slade hadn't said a word, as far as if there was going to even be equipment here. Robin hopes there will be, eventually. That night, remembering what flying truly felt like, was locked down tight in his memory. 

“So… what's the plan?” He asks, instead of focusing on the memory, how it both calms and annoys his longing for some kind, any kind, of action. Robin had never been one to be okay with any kind of enforced inactivity, and a near month of it makes his skin crawl. 

“Plan?” Wintergreen smiles, a low chuckle lifting his lips. “Restless?” 

He's hitting the nail on the head. But he tends to do that. Robin makes a face, nodding as they walk through the convoluted halls with their endless array of palm scanners and thick metal doors. On a purely militant view, they almost make sense, the segments of space are too small to allow many invaders entrance at once and there's enough that it would be childs play to come and defeat them at Slade’s leisure, especially slowed down by the hacking that would be required at each door. On a personal level, however, they're a pain in the neck. Who needs to go through ten or more doors just to get to the breakfast table? Not to mention a lot of them have other, unlabeled doors set into the walls. 

“What are in these rooms?” Its something he maybe should have asked earlier… but he's been busy. Mostly busy trying to escape Slade, but the point still stands. Exploring has taken a back burner. 

The palm scanner beeps and flashes green as Wintergreen, Robin still had sorely limited access, steps through into the kitchen. 

“Storage, mostly.” He says, absently opening the fridge to peer inside. There can't be much there, because it only take a few moments to pull his head back out, bringing some eggs and cheese, bacon and some leftover chopped veggies from their stir fry the night before. “Omelettes are going to have to succifice.” 

“Are they?” Slade, fully armored and rattling with his assorted weapons, asks. He comes around the corner as he's talking, lifting his mask and setting it heavily onto the table top. The chair, reinforced, still protests the added weight of both the soldier and his miniaturized arsenal, creaking slightly when he starts stripping said weapons, piling them carelessly on said table. 

That's… not a good sign. Robin knows, both from watching Wintergreen slowly freeze, and the near lifeless expression on Slade’s face. Though it's uncovered, he's still unable to get a read on the man. The face under the mask may have been carved from the same metal, flat and empty and a far away look in his eye. It doesn't look good, but Robin's never seen this, and Wintergreen is carefully not making any more sound than absolutely necessary, and Slade just keeps stripping, until he's in a long sleeved black undershirt and matching pants, even taking off his boots and matching black socks. 

It’s then, and only then, with his feet pressed solidly to the floor-- and Robin can see how his calves twitch with the force he's extorting against the chilled tile-- and his hands deliberately held, each finger slowly moved to touch the matching pad on the other hand, fingers spread slightly apart; does the man take a breath.  And Robin jerks when realizes that all that time and Slade _wasn't_ breathing. He hadn't taken a single breath, hadn't inhaled at all. The ragged, harsh edge of the man's lungs working are forgiven and out of character, though the sound slowly dispels the eerie silence Slade had earlier.  He closes his eye, tightly, making new wrinkles fold in along his face.

“Slade…?” Robin questions, easing closer, but poised to run if Slade does… something. Robin doesn't know what Slade even could do, looking as exhausted as he does. Slade, who actually looks up-- slowly enough that it seems like the motion is physically painful-- taking another deep breath. 

“Richard. I--” He takes yet another breath, low and controlled, in through his mouth, out noisily through his nose. And tries again. His voice is rough, raspy, scaring Robin slightly. This… is not how Slade acted. This was... “I do not have the… mental energy to handle this. Please. Do not… start anything.”

His words are exhausted, the closest Slade has ever sounded to begging, and it does something to Robin. Something inside his chest tightens, fierce and unexpected and demanding he do _something._ What, he doesn't now. But the distressing sensation doesn't ease, just gets worse when Slade won’t hold his gaze, closing his single eye again when he sighs heavily. Wintergreen turns, reluctantly, back to whatever he was doing, but he's tense and keeps looking back over his shoulder. So… it's up to Robin. He allows himself to act on instinct, stepping closer before he can think twice about it, and his arms are around Slade's shoulders. 

Shoulders that are now not moving, are tensing under him, and Robin's tense too and this was such a bad idea, this was going to backfire. He was going to _die._

His internal, panicked monologue is interrupted when Slade's arms come up, hugging him back, an invisible shudder rippling through the tightly muscled back when Slade starts to breathe again, just a little bit unsteady. 

It's… not uncomfortable, surprisingly. Slade warm under his arms, and though the man is sitting, they're around the same height. On his back, against his shoulder blade, Slade's fingers twitch, an aborted half clutching motion that somehow made Robin want to talk to him, wanted to… help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragging a little more comic verse stuff in. Slade and Harley have fought before, when Rose was kidnapped but it's not really vital to the plot.   
> And. I know so, so many of you thought the paper work was adoption stuff... oops? Sorry. Slade needs to work on himself a little but more before he can be a halfway decent father. But we're on that path. I promise


	34. Chapter 34

Slade is… if he had enough brainpower to be anything, surprised. Richard was next to him, arms around his shoulders, of his own free will and as ‘adult’ as he ever was. 

It… wasn't awful. 

Richard was hugging him, after a fully awful therapy session that still had him shaken to the core. His charge was warm and alive and breathing and in his arms. Will was over in the kitchen, making just enough noise that Slade feels just a little more grounded, skin fitting just a little better, just a little more settled into this place. Slowly, Slade relaxes his grip on the boys shoulders, pulling away after a long moment. Richard seems reluctant, if anything, to go: slipping away and taking a step back, refusing to look directly at Slade. That's alright. Slade isn't really up to looking at him either, feeling ripped open and sewn back together wrong, raw and agonized in his head. 

“Breakfast…?” He finally offers, gesturing to an open chair. This… isn’t ideal, but he has to deal with it, sighing when Richard easily drops into the chair, the room slowly thawing, quicker when Slade stands and puts away his armor, his weapons. Right. Richard doesn't like even that small deviation from the routine. Slade always changed in his room, went in Deathstroke and came out… Not Slade, not the venomous hatred filled name that Richard once spat with such bile. Someone else. Someone who was fit to be around a child. 

Harley had told him it may be like this, when she had actually believed he was serious, and her laughter had trailed off into silence. She had explained how healing… trauma, because he can no longer lie to himself, he'd been through hell and hadn't come out unscathed, could actively make it worse, once they got past discussing coping strategies and into his past. 

Like digging into something fleshy and soft with a blunted tool, ripping out poisons and leaving jagged, bruised lines, chunks of guilt and failure and pain. But, if it helped, and clearly it was, then… it may be worth it, to feel the sharp edges of himself in crystal detail. 

Thankfully for Slade's sanity, the rest of the day goes smoothly. Though Slade himself is still distant, cold and empty, Richard behaves. Richard _has_ been behaving. Admirably. Maybe some kind of reward is in order…Later, later. Recalling his errant thought, the mercenary frowns at the lines of code dancing on his computer screen. For a simple enough task, just setting up a new level for Richard's training, it's impossible to keep himself focused. Everytime he sets himself to the task, his mind starts to wander, unforgivably so.

Finally, after the umpteenth attempt and failure to stay focused, Slade beats a tactile retreat; turning off the screens and running a hand over his pure white hair.

“Richard.” He calls, instead of trying once more, glancing over his shoulder. The boy was there, keeping an oddly tight orbit around Slade all day, always on the edge of the man's senses. Earlier, he'd been practicing, flips and takedowns with a few of Slade's robots, but now he looked to be relaxing, stretched out on a surely uncomfortable pile of defeated robots and reading one of the books Slade had placed on his bedside each time the stack became depleted. It's obvious he's distracted, when he does glance up at the end of the paragraph, but Slade tries on a tired smile. It's… not as fake as he thought it would be, the smallest ember of fondness lodged in his chest for the boy. “I'm retiring for the evening.” 

He pauses for a moment, wanting to ask and wanting to let the boy have some space as well. “The doors are set to lock five minutes after my departure. I suggest you’re in your room before they do so.”

There. In five minutes, more or less, Slade can be assured Richard, now looking at him idly, will be safely kept in his room, far from any danger that may be lurking outside the halls. It has to do. He nods again, stretching the tense muscles of his shoulders as he walks away, the smallest of smiles playing at his lips at the sound of Richard hurrying after him, ordering the robots to fix themselves up and go back to their standby positions. 

  


“I'm going out.” Will glances up, sparse hours after Slade announced he was going to bed. He hadn't managed to actually drop off, restless. Nightmares, or memories, they're one and the same, kept the shadows of his room as unfamiliar and dangerous as they ever were in Vietnam. There was no repose offered in the darkness, and Slades tired of trying, getting into his armor and slightly amused at how comforting the metal and kevlar are. Just earlier, they felt like a prison. And now they're a refuge? It an entertaining thought, enough to slightly lift his blackened mood.

Will waves him off, already distracted with the small tablet in his hand.

And so, Slade goes. Melds into the darkness of the Jump City night, restlessly relieves the pressures in his muscles. 

It's a quiet night, barely anyone scurrying around on the pavement below his perch. It would be good, if only because they are… while not exactly innocents, those kind of people are already safely tucked into bed at this hour, complications. And complications are already being had. Batman may rely on the shadows and the dark to keep himself hidden, but Slade is Enhanced. He saw the man start stalking him nearly a mile ago, ridiculous ears of the cowl a slightly shinier black against the cities shadows. 

Slade perches on a rooftop far from the main civilian population, mostly legit businesses. Corrupt, of course, there are few things that aren't, but mostly victimless crimes. Crimes that would not require any large night visitors.

“Batman.” He keeps it cold, polite, distant. This man was important to Richard and, as much as Slade despises the necessity of it, Richard's contentment has somehow managed to become entangled with his own. So, he will not kill Batman, would hesitate to maim Bruce Wayne. Batman doesn't share the restraint, flicking out some of his modified shuriken, Batarangs, that Slade dodges easily, parrying the fist that comes moments after. 

“Where is my son?!” The man growls, all gravel and dramatics. Slade's not above that particular urge, springing away into a backflip that they both recognize as Richard's flashy style. Bruce, after all, can take the circus away from the boy but some things would never fade, and the need to grandstand was one of them. The Bat's eyes narrow, under the heavy black ringing the blue. 

“He's not _yours_!” Slade’s voice is dark, menacing, promising and threatening. Batman growls, matching his violence for violence when Slade draws his katana for a wide sweeping blow Batman would be able to dodge, if only just. The sudden, irrational anger surprises him, already raw and broken from the day, and he speaks a harsher than he normally allows himself. “He was _never_ yours! And, you pushed him _out. Replaced_ him. Took another kid and put him in Richard’s mantle, gave away his _name!”_

He's losing control. Too quickly. Too raw. This was the worst possible time for a confrontation, particularly _this_ confrontation. He grits his teeth, trying and failing to keep the anger from his voice. He doesn't bother to try and stop the faces forming in his mind. John. Richard. Grant. Joseph. Rosaline. All those he swore to protect, and those he failed. There was no excuse, none he could accept and none that he could offer. But he, at least, made no effort to obscure his faults. He wore the sins he committed. Batman merely swept one child under the rug and got another. 

Replaced Richard like he was something common.

“What happens when this one breaks? When he refused to contort into you image?” The barest flicker of pain passes over the other man's face, and Slade leaps at it, pressing the advantage even as he mentally reminds himself to go back and look at the boy. The child in Richard's place. “Are you going to throw him out too?” 

“Robin--” 

“He has a name!” Slade cuts him off, trading blow that barely feel like taps with his armor and his healing. Batman is much of the same, they're more well matched than Slade wants to admit. “He has a name, and you _know_ I know it!” 

Before Batman can reply, before he can do much of anything, there's faint static in Slade's ear and Will’s voice comes over the line. Slade allows himself to fall, to drop altitude and roll himself onto another rooftop, precious seconds to actually hear what Will is saying, above and beyond all the violence of the brief fight.

“Slade. Richard just woke up, he asking where you are. It may be prudent for you to return swiftly.” Richard? Awake and actually asking for him? Nothing good can cause that. There's no hesitation in his form when Slade lights and drops several smoke bombs, disappearing under their cover and leaving furious, scowling Batman behind him. Batman, who in the low light, his eyes may just seem to sparkle with something other than rage.  

  
  


“Richard.” Slade enters the kitchen, weapons stripped and changed into soft sleeping clothes. If Richard did call because he was frightened, the image of Deathstroke would certainly not help. “Will, where is…?” 

“Richard is asleep, safe in his bed. You needed to get out of there and Richard was the only hope of actually getting your attention.” Will ignores it when Slade stops, freezing as he looks at his oldest friend.

“You lied?” Will shrugs, apparently unconcerned when he does look up, pushing his tablet to the side. His aged, lined face is unapologetic, not the slightest hint of regret for lying to Slade. Instead, something likes sadness glints in the depths of his dark eyes when they hold Slade's own furious gaze calmly. 

“Yes. That was a fight where there was no ‘winning’. Even if you did manage to defeat Batman without seriously injuring him, what would Richard think? When he finds out? Because children always manage to figure out the exact thing you want to keep from them.” The butler asks, eyes clouded with age but still sharp enough to cut through Slade's rising anger. It… makes sense. Sense Slade hadn't considered. Not in the moment. Not with red hot anger clogging his throat and painting the night with blood. He deflates, nodding once.

“Don’t lie, not to me.” He says, insistent and afraid. Will has always been there. He doesn't… at least not to Slade.

“Only when absolutely necessary.” Its not a promise, far from one, but it’s enough of one Slade nods, collecting the cup Will offers. And, with dry, humorless smiles and cups of coffee, the two sit and wait for morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter. But whatever.   
> Sorry about missing the past 2 weeks, I was at a convention and forgot about everything


	35. Chapter 35

Robin isn't quite sure how or when, but Wednesdays… kinda become their thing. Slade leaves early in the morning, before Robin is even close to waking, and comes back in time for breakfast. If Robin is feeling small they spend time doing stupid, irrational things. Seriously. When Robin started… all of this, before he was forbidden from being Robin, he mostly used his little side to sleep. To be able to drift off in peace and actually get some relief form the constant sense of danger patrolling Gotham's streets instilled. Now… they're…

Just. Weird. Robin's coloring, without a care of lines or colors. Slade would actually print off whatever pictures Robin asks for, had produced enough colored pencils, markers, and crayons to supply a small school, and never fails to smile warmly when Robin shyly shows off his finished piece. Slade smiles. Like the sun peeking out of a cloud. It does weird things to Robin, more than Batmans sparse praise ever had. It might be that Robin was always exhausted when Bruce gave that raspy growl of “Good job, Robin.” or that it was always for _Robin_. Slade always made a point to use his name, or little bird, or more recently, kid, and his compliments were both frequently earned and always meant. 

They're not even reserved for his smaller mindset, the Wednesdays Robin doesn't feel small, doesn't want that easy affection and to be coddled like a child; Slade still offers that small smile, a few words. It's… nice. Really nice. Its It's not like Slade has an easier time with whatever he does on Wednesdays, or he doesn't have moments where he completely and utterly terrifying, but Robin doesn't mind. As much.

Its like… they're starting to rely on each other. Like they're starting to trust in one another. It's terrifying. Robin is well and truly terrified of it, so he tries not to think about it.

It’s Wednesday again, and Wintergreen is just about finished setting up breakfast when Slade bursts in, eye wide and wild in his face. Panic. Not quite as bad as that first time, when Slade nearly shook apart as Robin hugged him, but bad enough Robin freezes. A wrong move might scare the man. And it's a tribute of the effort Slade has made that Robin isn't worried about the consequences to himself if he scared Slade. No, he's worried for the man himself, slowly standing when Slade focuses his gaze on him. 

“Richard.” It has to be his imagination, that tiny desperate edge in Slade’s voice, the word asking and demanding and begging all at once. For what? Robin doesn't know, but he steps forward anyway, slowly reaching out a hand and letting it hover about a foot away from Slade. He… may have asked Wintergreen for some books on dealing with PTSD and they all were very firm on asking before touching someone in the middle of an attack. 

“Slade. It's okay, you're home. You're safe. I'm safe, Wintergreen is safe.” Slade nods, but slowly, like he's not sure. Like he's not entirely present in the room.

“I have to go. I can't stay--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head firmly. “No I have to--” 

“It's Wednesday…” Crud! The words fell out without Robin's permission. He didn't want to let Slade know how much he enjoyed _their_ day, and he totally just sounded like he was pouting. He frowns, embarrassed by it and looks away from Slade’s eye, steel grey wild yet still calculating as it roams over the kitchen.

“Come with.” Slade pauses after he says it, narrows his eye and considers Robin like he's a particularly interesting species that he just found. Something he doesn’t understand but s only vaguely intriguing. “Come with me, then. You're right. Wednesdays are our day and since I cannot stay here. You come with me.” 

Robin spares half a second to consider running away but… No. Not right now. Not today. Slade already looks uneasy and… Well. He's not exactly used to people being willing to give him a whole day together. Bruce was always busy, and even if Alfred was like a Grandfather to him, the older man was always busy too. Is it really that wrong? If he soaks up the attention that Slade is providing? 

It can’t be. This is something _good._ Good things don’t often happen to Robin, he just ensures good things happen to others. Shouldn’t he be allowed it? For just a little? It can’t be wrong. Right?

Well, even if it is. He might just have to live with it. Coming first, being important enough for an adult to set aside everything to care for him… it feels nice. Strange. But nice. 

What was he doing? Slade isn't quite sure why he's offering the boy an outing. It hasn't been _that_ long since Richard had ran straight into the less than caring arms of Harvey Dent and the Joker. But. Aside from a brief flash of consideration in those eyes, Richard doesn't seem to be planning any mischief, the only excitement lighting his eyes is the joy to finally get outside, there’s no malice tensing his muscles or stretching his lips into a smile. He’ll be fine. He’s happy. He won’t… He wouldn’t run, he’s probably still too scared of Slade to try. The thought is not a comforting one.

Robin’s shoes, too small now, he must be hitting a growth spurt, take a minute to find but once they're on Robin bounces excitedly on his heels. His eyes are shining, joy and excitement and the smallest hint of wariness casting the only pall over the jewel like blue. 

Seeing him, bright and vibrant and _loud_ , so childishly, happily loud, releases a fraction of the tension in Slade's ribs, easing his shoulders he didn't realize were tense. Not enough, however, that Slade can feel easy in the lair, or that he can't see the grey pallor of his loved ones dead bodies, most cover with rusty bloodstains. Like accusing flower petals, the bloodstains left on their dead cold skin refuse to be brushed away, or scrubbed from under his nails. He can still feel it, some days. Today. The tacky drag against his fingers when he tries to save them, the chill of death that is determined to draw away his warmth, how their bones were left exposed on the ground, flesh pierced so easily and the ropes meant to _keep them safe_ hanging loose and frayed and broken, but above it all the heartbroken, gut wrenching, cries of--

“Slade?” Robin asks, head tilting slightly.The man was withdrawing again, frown growing to cast a shadow over his face. There’s a flash of what looks like pain crossing Slade’s face, before it clears and he just looks… exhausted. Like he’s been drained of every drop of the normal vitality he possess. “Are… Are you okay to go out? We can stay here Slade.”

Robin almost… He almost calls it home. Wouldn’t exactly protest calling it home. But Slade is shaking his head, holding up a deep blue strip of fabric and the distrust the action shows stings, but not as much as Robin’s understanding of why he does it. Slade’s… vulnerable right now. He’s allowing Robin, even if he doesn't mean or want to, another chance to hurt him. In order for Slade to be vulnerable… Robin has to allow himself to be just as vulnerable as the man in front of him. It makes sense, kind of. Some things are starting to come together, deep in the recess of Robin’s brain, where he refuses to look or consider for very long, something settling into his very bones. In the murky way of all life changing realizations, he cannot figure it out, not yet. Something has changed. Something is changing. But… what? And why? And does Robin, so used to changes and tired of the upheaval they always bring, really want to change yet again? 

He sighs, instead of focusing on the heavy question, and obediently closes his eyes. Pressure, and darkness. That’s all he really can tell, until a hand, a warm and familiar hand, is pressed to his shoulder. Slade steers him for what probably is not that long of a time, but stuck in the darkness, with only Slade to guide him… It’s weird. Uncomfortable.

Not… Not the actual sensations, not his desire to lean back into Slade’s hands. But… he’s uncomfortable that he is so comfortable with Slade. It makes a twisting, uneasy sensation between his stomach and his lungs, too full to breathe properly and making a face. Of course, just because he can’t see anything doesn’t mean Slade is confined to the same, and the man’s voice is low when he talks.

“Another moment, Rich-- Robin. We’re almost there, and then I can take off the blindfold.” He soothes, squeezing Robin’s shoulder gently when he starts at the return of his vigilante name. Why…? Why, after months of “Richard” “Little Bird” and “Kid”, why did Slade return to that name…? 

“Slade… why?” There's another sigh from his right and Robin can hear Slade typing a code into somewhere, and then the quiet whoosh of moving machinery and displaced air. Hidden door, then. Another reason for the secrecy and refusal to trust Robin. Maybe it shouldn’t hurt that much, Slade’s distrust, but Robin knows it does. He’s tired of shoving his emotions aside, of pretending to be Batman, of pretending to be more than human. He is human, and having someone he… maybe reluctantly, but still trusts refuse to offer the same stings. 

“You’ve never come forward with your name to the public. And, since the Bat has enough pictures circling of your civilian name, we’re going out in uniform.” Something in Robin’s gut clenches, icy and cold. Suddenly, the lair behind them is where he wants to be. How long has it been since he was out in public? Half a year? A full year? He can’t tell. He can’t remember.

Slade squeezes his shoulder again, leading him forward and then lightly tugging off the dark blue cloth that was wound around Robin’s head. “I don’t think Batman would mind fighting in the produce aisle, but let’s avoid that if possible, huh?”

He should be laughing, Robin knows that the joke is actually really funny, but neither laugh. Slade, for all he’s incredibly gentle as he unwinds the blindfold, is as tense as a drawn bow string, picking up on Robin’s own uncertainty. Robin, blinking away the shadows, can’t help but show his unease, one corner of his lip tingling as he catches it between his teeth and chews slightly. He’s… Scared, he realizes, suddenly. He’s scared of what’s outside. Maybe a little bit of it is from his run in with Joker and Two-Face… But, no. That’s not all. In the lair, he’s… free. Ironically so, seeing how Slade’s kidnapped him, and spanked him, and beat him. But Slade also didn’t mind when Robin wasn’t able to be an adult. Slade seemed to enjoy watching Roin color or read just as much as he enjoyed watching Robin grow stronger or faster. Robin didn’t have to hide here. Wasn’t allowed to. Even if he could, even if he tried, Slade saw through all his bluff and his masks. It was a comfort as much as it was an annoyance. 

The outside world didn’t have that. He has… expectations out there. He has someone to be, a mask he has to wear. He’s Robin, boy wonder. He’s the leader of the Teen Titans, apprentice of Batman, a figurehead against crime. He certainly can’t be seen with Deathstroke, of all people, calmly walking in a supermarket. Because… That’s who Slade is. He murders and he kills and he may… He may even torture people. No matter how the thought turns his stomach, Robin has to acknowledge it. Slade probably tortured people, like Joker did. Like Two-Face did.

Can he… Can he really keep this up? Because, if he does, if he foolishly decides that Slade is not tricking him… He’s going to end up trusting the white haired man. He’s going to trust Slade, like he once trusted Batman. 

He can’t trust anyone like that again. It was too much, too deep, it took too much from him, when Batman turned his back, he destroyed a key part of Robin. If Slade did that…? There may be nothing to pick up the pieces anymore. 

“It’s your choice.” Slade is speaking, gesturing to two large lockers. One, he walks over to, opens easily and withdraws his Deathstroke uniform. He turns, shrugging out of his crisp white dress shirt, white under tee flexing with his movements, and pulling on the first layer of Kevlar and metal scale. “You don’t have to wear the new one, nor the old. It’s… It’s your choice, Robin.” It seems important to him, repeating his words how he does so rarely.

Confused, Robin pulls away from his racing thoughts, hesitantly opening the second locker. Once he does, he’s grateful for the fact Slade’s back is turned, because suddenly it feels a lot more important than just putting on a few articles of clothing. 

He has a choice, in front of him: Green, Yellow, Red on one side. Orange, Black, SIlver contrasted sharply on the other. The past, and the… Future? His future? Batman vs Slade? His old morals, old life, against Slade’s offer of a new one? 

His hand stretches, disconnected from his consciousness, and hovers between the two, torn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. You're all caught up. I have absolutely nothing written after this.   
> Because of that... I am going to move the official update day to *Every other* Saturday, so I have another week to prepare each chapter.


	36. Chapter 36

Robin has made up his mind by the time Slade turns, arms crossed and head tilted slightly. At Slade's raised eyebrow, he shakes his head.

“No.” He states, firmly.

The locker is still open behind him, the two uniforms undisturbed. Even a month ago, Robin would have been shaking in his shoes, terrified of making Slade angry. Now he just keeps steady, face expressionless. He's… not afraid of Slade, even in the midst of defying him. The revlatation that he's not afraid is slightly worrying, though.

“No?” Slade repeats, incredulous. His eye narrowing slightly when Robin doesn't give, his chin high and gaze coolly focused. 

“No. I'm not going to choose.” Stubborn. Slade remembers that trait, and his annoyance grows, remembering how that trait got so many people killed. His glare deepens, pinning the child in place. 

“Excuse me?” He asks, deceptively light. It's easier, to feel the annoyance and slight stirring of anger instead of remembering his helplessness, how easily he was tricked, how stubborn he was and the blood that stained his hands because of it. He will not allow this boy to fall prey to the same stubbornness his father had, that Slade had. Richard doesn't surrender, though it would have been smarter for him to, raising his chin and glaring right back at Slade. 

“I'm not choosing. And you can't make me.” He says, flat and a little angry. His arms fold across his chest, and Slade takes a moment, sucks in a breath from behind his mask. He tries to remind himself what Harley has said: Richard's pushing, trying to find some boundaries when there is sudden or unexpected change. He has to stay firm, but fair. Firm… but Fair. He could do that. Easy. 

Still, his tone is sharp when he replies, standing a little taller.

“Watch your tone, Robin.” That's all it takes, apparently, to shift the boy from defiance to outright anger, scowl on his face growing darker. He turns, glaring up at Slade for a too-long moment, clear eyes snapping in some kind of unexplained fury. And Slade knows, he just knows, whatever is going to come out of the kids mouth next just may ruin the rest of their day. He tries not to sigh. 

“Eat dirt, Slade.” Robin growls, suddenly, irrationally angry. But… how many times did Batman say that? It was _always_ ‘watch you tone, Robin’ and ‘Straighten up your act’ and ‘You're better than this!’, and Robin couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand hearing that from Slade's mouth. How many times had he had to choose in the past? In honoring what his Mama and Papa had taught him, versus pleasing his mentor? How many times had the line been hard, been sharp enough to cut jagged lines into his soul every time he was faced with it?  Just how many times had he given up on what _he_ wanted, because _someone_ would disapprove? No. No more. He wasn't going to choose. Slade couldn’t make him!

Slade's slightly taken aback by the vehemence in his young charges voice when he snaps, but that is quickly overwhelmed with ire. Richard may be testing his boundaries, and Slade is going to make sure he knows exactly where they lie. And this attitude? Lays far past the line. 

“This is your last warning, Robin.” He gives a warning. Fair, he is being fair, just like he's been practicing, like all those cursed books Harley gave him said. Though Richard should already know better, it is not right to punish without warning. It's difficult, though, far harder than it was in Harley's warehouse of an office. They had attempted to talk in an actual office, but Slade had been unable to actually say anything, the walls too close, too many sounds just outside the door. An empty warehouse, however, with it's clear sight lines and multiple exits, puts him more at ease. There, during the exercises, it had been easy to recognize what the ‘right’ thing to do was, how to hold his temper and find the root cause to ‘Robin's’ anger, as presented by Harley Quinn. Now… he struggled. Struggles, because he was out of his depth and Richard was _not helping._

“Or what!?” Robin snaps again, hating how much he hates Slade using his vigilante name. But he hates being called ‘Richard’ too. “I'm calling your bluff! You haven't hit me since…” He has to pause, taking a breath before he can say the name and when he does it's tinged with fear. “Since Joker tortured me. And you _killed_ him!” They're… they're not connected. Robin knows the two things aren't connected.

Except they _are._

His tone is nowhere near acceptable, and Slade doesn't bother warning again, stepping forward and swatting Richard sharply across his rear once. It seems to stun the boy, but not for long, he's turning back around and taking a step back, as if that would do anything to stop Slade should he require another punitive swat. 

“I'm willing to listen to you, Ro-- Richard.” The child doesn't know how easy it is to read his body language, does he? Once, almost a year ago now, Slade would have reacted with derision and scorn, promising to either train or beat the openness out of him, but now he just sighs, placing his hands gently on the boys shoulders. After all the fuss he made about using his superhero name… now he tenses like he's about to be struck whenever it leaves Slade's lips. Gently, because while he is irritated from the disrespect Richard just showed him, he's realizing he's not angry, he squeezes the boy, palms flexing and relaxing over the thin cotton shirt. “But you can't go about it in such a manner. Its disrespectful. And, eventually, disrespect won't earn you a few well deserved swats, but possibly your death.” He explains, carefully. Children respond better with explanations and reasoning. Slade almost longs for the easier days, when he could just say 'because I said so' and his children would fall into line. But… that hasn't ended up working either, had it?

It does seems to work, and Richard is slowly unwinding, shoulders coming down from their defensive positions around his ears.

“You'll… listen?” Richard finally asks, voice soft. It almost brings a smile to Slade's lips, how quickly the wind got knocked from his sails, and how suddenly willing the boy is. 

“I give you my word.” He responds, resisting the urge to ruffle the midnight black tresses, still unruly and ungelled, despite Richard earning back his surprisingly fussy haircare products some time ago. “So long as we have time for a discussion, and we both are respectful while we have it, I will always listen to you. I may not agree, and as the adult my word is final, but I will listen to you, do you hear me?”

Robin has to pause, stop and take it in. Slade… has come so far. Robin's… mostly not afraid of the man anymore, trusts him. It's such a marked difference from those first awful weeks, Robin's not sure if Slades the same person, not anymore. Maybe he isn't. In the same way Robin isn't really the same person he was. He's grown. Changed. Became more mature and more stable. Could Slade have as well?

Distracted by this, it takes another moment to properly word his objection, jerking a thumb back at the still open locker.

“It's… Not fair. To ask me to choose like this. It's… more than a uniform, Slade. These represent the person I was… and the person you hoped I would become.” His fingers gently skim over the bright colors of his old one, and the muted orange and black of the one Slade designed. “They both… they don't fit right. Not yet. Maybe one day, I'll use one or both. But this decision wasn't yours to make me make. It's.” Here, he grew frustrated, falling silent and rotating his shoulder once. “It just wasn't right.” 

At his words, Slade paused, looking carefully over Robin's face, his face calmly assessing. He's listening, truly actually listening. And, when he's done, Slade nods. Decisively. Like some big decision was just made.

“You're right.” He admits, keeping his eye on Robin's. “And. If you had started like that, you could have been right and avoided a spanking.”

When Robin sputters, however, heart in his throat and a quick step back, Slades there to catch him.

“No. I warned you. Disrespect will not be tolerated. Only a few swats, turn around now.” He doesn't look like he's going to obey and Slade wonders if he's really going to have to escalate this. "Richard. If I were you, I'd do it now. Before I decide you need a trip over my lap, instead."

He's quite contented with himself at that: offering both a chance for the boy to decide his own fate and warning of what would happen if he chose the more difficult path. Not wrong, like he would have labeled it once. If Richard needs to test his boundaries in that direction, if he's testing Slades words, then that path is necessary. Thankfully, Richard seems to deflate, looking forlorn for a moment before sighing and facing the other way. He bends slightly, without having to be told, so his rear is sticking out a bit more than the rest of his body. And, though his face is tightly wound up with distaste and more than slight discomfort, he's not _afraid _. Slade… approves. He likes it, that Richard isn't afriad..__

____

____

"Sorry." He even admits, quietly, after Slade lays five hard smacks against his jean clad backside. "I'm not good with… no ones really listened to me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I'm like a proud papa right now. These two have come so. So far.


	37. Chapter 37

Slade hums, low in his throat, allowing Richard to keep his face turned away. Maybe because of the hand that is attempting to hold onto where his shirt normally ends, meeting only the cold hard Kevlar. Maybe because Slade wasn't exactly prepared to handle the vulnerability that would be in the young man's eyes.

"Your friends, the heros, do. Don't they? I've seen it, with my own eye." Slade points out, sighing when Richard tenses. 

"It's not the same." He mutters, glancing back at the half open locker and grabbing just a plain domino mask. "Here. No one has seen my face in… a while. This should give us enough time to go out and come back. Right?"

There's something there, in his evasion. Slade could poke at it, try and see what's wrong. But, they're both tired and on edge. Richard's problems and insecurities couldn't be solved in a day, and they would keep until tomorrow. So, he doesn't say anything about the way the boys eyes darken, something old and painful in his gaze. Now is not the time, later. Later.

"Yes…" He shouldn't. Slade knows he shouldn't. There is roughly twenty reasons he should insist, should enforce and underline the fact he is right. However… if he pushes, he may distress Richard. Might push him past reasoning and into violent denial. Slade is reasonably certain he can deal with any meddling fools before Richard is forced to choose something far more drastic than colors and fabrics… It's a bad idea. But... "Put the mask on, before I change my mind. Let's go."

A sunshine bright smile breaks across Richard's face, and Slade has to pause. Breathe. And blink before he can rid his mind eye of that same smile, on a face just slightly older, and the stab of pain that comes with it is near debilitating. It's the same. The slightly crooked gash of teeth. They smile the same, down to how the right side has a little twist that hints at darker humor. How long has it been…? 

When Richard's small, his smile isn't the same. It's… innocent. Pure and sweet. Slade wouldn't trade it for the world, but this… He's aware he's staring, tearing away his gaze like it's physically painful, but no longer seeing that smile doesn't erase the past. But, for once, the past doesn't erase the present and that may be the best it gets.

If it is? If every bit of happiness for this boy feels like nails piercing his heart, like fire to the soft skin of his wrists and neck? Slade’s willing to take it. Willingly to flay himself open and ask for more. He's willing to pay that price.

Robin frowns, though his butt doesn't hurt, not anymore. There was a moment, just now. Slade turning quieter, inward. His eye had fogged, looked like he was miles away and years in the past. But… he had said yes. He said Robin didn't need to choose. That was enough. He tries to smile at Slade, draw him back to the here and now, to where they're going to go outside and have _fun_ , but the man doesn't seem to notice. Robin shrugs, lifting his mask up.

The mask settling over his eyes is a welcome distraction, though he makes a face at the instant dulling of his sight. The lenses, coated with a special film to ensure his eyes stay hidden while allowing his vision to be nearly unobstructed, always give him a slight headache. And while the difference is slight, the colors are muted, and he stands straighter. A small shift, remembered rebukes and muttered reminders to stand straight, watch his posture. He was a hero. He had to act. To look the part. Robin loved his mask. But… With the mask comes his Responsibilities, and he can almost hear Batman's voice, the emphasis to the word a verbal  capital. His Responsibilities. To the mission. To his city. To his friends… There's a weight around him; a blanket, weighted and heavy and dragging his mind. His mind, where a slow horror is dawning. 

What is he _doing_!

Hanging out with Slade? One of the worst criminals Robin has ever faced? One of the _scum_ that watered the cement with blood on a regular basis? That played with bombs and forbidden technology and stole as easily as breathing? 

He instantly wants to take the mask off. Wants Slade to take his off. To retreat into the lair and be… whatever they were. Whatever they were pretending to be. Robin doesn't want to go out there, doesn't want reality to encroach on the tiny, warm place he and Slade somehow managed to carve out for themselves these past months. Out there… he has expectations he needs to rise to meet.

Slade has contracts and buys his fancy lairs, buys everything from the food they eat to the clothes on Robin's back with blood. Blood and violence. His skin crawls, and he resists the urge to jump back, get back inside.

But Slade's opening the door, keypad smoothly melting away like it was never there and looking back. Briefly, Robin considers asking Slade to remove the flat orange and black, asking to be show Slade’s real face. 

But… No.

It's better this way.

Robin's a hero, he's built his world on that fact. He's rebuilt himself twice over with that one single fact. Robin, The Boy Wonder, is a hero. Sl-- Deathstroke is a villian. However, whenever, that line got blurred… he doesn't know. Maybe this was Slade's plan, maybe he's just stupid. But so long as the sun shines, as long as he stands tall and strong, Robin is going to end up on the right side. And Slade’s on the other. 

He can't get attached.

Robin buried Dick Grayson once before, he has to do it again, no matter how his very soul flinches away from the thought. 

  


Slade shouldn't have worried. For all his excitement, Richard had turned out rather quiet once they left the lair. He was reluctant to get out of the car, to walk in the store, barely glanced at the new shoes Slade procured. 

There was no sign of the hero types, no troubles from the criminals. Richard was even well behaved, if distant. It should have been a miracle. Slade should be happy, should be grateful… he can't quite muster the feeling, however. Not when Richard is looking anywhere but at Slade. When his posture, normally an open book, has quite nicely shut down. Slade can't get a proper read off him, and that's… not good. He glances over again, at the too still boy staring out the window.

It's more difficult than he wishes to admit; reading the boys mood without access to the familiar vibrant pools of blue. Maybe his dislike is unsurprising, considering how used he was to the child's gaze, but he doesn't quite bother letting the emotion take root. Useless. Action is preferable. 

"You can take off the mask, Richard."He finally says, easing his own off his face, the slightly cooler air kissing the skin revealed by the action. Its uncomfortable, and while he can survive days ignoring the faintly sticky touch, the heat of his own breath and the salty tang of his sweat mixing with high quality metal, the exterior is better. The metal makes the softest click as meets the plastic of the car's dashboard, Slade glancing over with just enough time to see Rochard recoil, straightening so his back is ramrod straight against the leather seat and fingers flexing hard against the material of his pants. 

"I--" He starts, shaking his head like that's enough for Slade to understand. "I… No." 

Slade's good eye narrows, glancing over sharply. Not again. Not so soon. He's tired, emotionally and his hard won patience is nearly expired. Richard cannot possibly attempt to fight him _again_ today… right?

"Richard." Both a command and a plea, the name carries far more weight than it should and Slade allows it to hang heavily in the air. The boys bracing, for a blow or something else entirely, Slade cannot say, and grits his teeth. Stubborn to the bone. "Calm down. I'm not going to strike you. I gave you my word, remember?" 

Too harsh. Too loud and angry. Even as he growls, Slade knows it's a misstep, biting his tongue between merciless teeth and exhaling noisily. It, Slade's regret, doesn't stop Richard from tensing further, or from covered eyes cutting sharply in his direction, the fabric of the mask narrowing dangerously. 

"Do I, Deathstroke? You always change things just when they're convenient for you, after all." He snaps, just as harsh as Slades own words and far less tolerable. Not to mention calling Slade by his mercenary title. 

Anger, hot and familiar and choking, nearly blacks out his vision, but Slade merely bites his tongue all the harder, pulling into the warehouse that holds their cars. Once inside, door shut and security system clicking into place, does he release the breath caught in his teeth. And slowly, carefully, does he speak.

"That. Is not my name. You know this, Richard." Each word is enunciated, carefully measured against his ire. "Cease talking to me in that tone, you may say what you are feeling, but take care with _how_ you say it."

Hopefully, the warning, the reminder of the morning's useless argument shall ease Richard's tone, and they could--

"Like you do!?" The boy retorts, all sharp lines and poison tongue. "How many times have I said my name is _Robin_?! How many times have I held myself in check when you decided that you know better? And that I have to--" 

He's cut off. Not, like Slade near desperately wants to, with a hard clout against his cheek or his trousers; but by Slade's rapid exit of the vehicle. Slade, whose anger is shown with the harsh slamming of the door, and the dents left along it's roof where his fingers dig into the metal. It takes every minuscule molecule of what willpower and patience he can dredge from reserves he never knew of to walk away. Walk away, and leave Richard in the car, because what he wants… what he _wants_

"Slade!" Richard is calling for him, nervous around the edges, worry hiding in his name. Slade does not turn. Does not acknowledge the child. Because if he does… if he turns and meets the sharp side of Richard's tongue again… Richard may not make it out with his tongue intact. His name is called again, when he disappears into the lair, door keyed to stay visible and open until the bird enters.

Enters, and explains what, exactly, is going on inside his head. 


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up. This chapter may have been one of the hardest for me to write. There is some difficult subject matter introduced, check bottom notes if you're concerned.

Robin stops, breathing hard. Slade is… Slade.

Left. 

Just. Left. Walked away. While Robin was mid sentence. Like what he was saying didn't matter. No. Slade never made him feel like that. Never simply ignored or spoke over. He would interrupt Robin, mostly with a warning to watch his tone, but would allow Robin to continue after. He didn't…

Did he finally push him too far? Did Robin…

Robin doesn't want to think about what he did. Because if Slade left him, if Slade abandoned him. If Slade, after all the trouble he's put into Robin, tosses him out because Robin went _too far_ … He can't imagine it. He can't. He can't. He _can't._ Slade. Slade wouldn't. 

He promised Robin. That he would take care of him. That Robin was his… Apprentice? Child? Favorite punching bag? No… No one would do all that Slade's done for a mere apprentice, and he never knew Slade before coming to Jump City so he couldn't think of Robin as his child. And Slade doesn't do that anymore. He changed. 

Slade changed. And changed Robin enough that going to Titans Tower, which almost had felt like a home, seemed wrong. It was wrong. The tower wasn't home. No more than Wayne Manor was. He wasn't home. Home was safe, how was where he could allow his defenses to come down and relax and be-- where he could be… Robin takes a shuddering breath, clawing oxygen into his lungs. 

Home was where he could be whoever the heck he wanted to be. Home was.

Home was the voice, slow and calming. Home was Wintergreen, looking over with a smile, and hands always gentle, no matter how angry Robin made him. Home was laughter, loud and bright, low and warm. It was white hair and the improbable mix of crisp dress shirts and kevlar armor. Home was his room, not a place to merely recharge, but where he went to relax. It was books picked purely for enjoyment, and coloring books where no one cared if he colored outside the lines. It was long sighs that couldn't hide amusement and fondness. It was bottles, green sports or otherwise, and an arm strong enough to hold him with ease. It was even the playpen he hated, because that pen meant he was _allowed_ to be exactly who and what he was, even if Slade had things that simply could not be put off to watch a child. Those times were rare, too. It was… Home was… Home was here. With Slade and Wintergreen.

And because Robin messed it up, messed it up like he messed _everything_ up; he no longer got to keep it. Just when he figured it out, just when he finally understood what _he_ wanted, he took it. And ruined it. Something else, something new, to add to everything else he ruined.

He'd already been crying, since the moment Slade turned his back, but at the realization Robin was _alone_ and would always be, a dam broke behind his eyes. The wail that tears up his throat, high and desperate and horrified, is animalistic. An instinctual wave of sound that lifts his chin and aches in his throat, when he pushes past a comfortable volume. It's the cry of a child, an abandoned baby, an animal kicked one too many times and begging for someone, anyone, to come help. 

But no one's coming for Robin. No one ever has. Not really. And the one, singular person who had…? Robin just pushed him away. He's all alone. Because Robin _made_ himself alone.

No one's coming for him.

No one.

  
  


"You guys did good, seriously. BB, I saw that hit you took, good job getting back up, but you need to let Raven look you over now, okay?" How had Robin done this…? It's been almost a year. Even the smallest hint of a clue has been chased into the ground, used up and come to nothing, like all the rest. The Titans have managed. They even laugh sometimes, a little. Laugh, and not have it sound completely fake. Cyborg's proud of them for that. Raven's coming out of her room more, going back to her deadpan sarcasm instead of the cutting remarks she had been dealing out. Beast Boy had even started playing video games again last week, really playing them, not just passively pushing buttons with no real interest. 

He was… proud. Proud of them. Except…

"Star?" He's quiet, barely more than a whisper breaking the darkness in what was Robin's room. She'd been hiding in here more and more often, as the search grew cold, until Batman didn't bother sending weekly reports and stopped reading the ones Cybor dutifully typed and sent. Hiding, and doing little else. 

Everything about her had dulled, a pallor cast against her normally bright eyes, her very hair seeming limp and lifeless. Their team was down to three, now, with Star's fires banked. She couldn't fly, and her star bolts rarely were more than weak glows around her fists, when they showed at all. 

She'd lost all hope. 

Cybor knows it's called depression, though she gave it some long name in an alien tongue, refusing to meet his eyes. And, when he asked, as gently as he could, it was one of the few alien habits she refused to talk about, seemingly ashamed. 

"Friend Cyborg." The greeting is soft, but with a spark of warmth. A good day then. Cyborg takes a risk, turning the light to a low glow, just enough to see her, bent over what little they had found. She squints at the light, just a little, before her eyes adjust, and she offers a wane smile. 

"Hey Star." He repeats, lost for just a moment. But, he remembers his research, how to attempt to help her, as much as he could. In the end, Starfire would have to be the one to seek help, but until then… "How are you doing?" 

Carefully, not making it a big deal, he gathers the loose cups and plates scattered in the room. She has enough going on, he reminds himself, pressuring her about things she can neither control or handle will not help the situation. Being connected to the internet as he is… It's been helpful, to say the least. 

"Very well! I believe I have found a link between the one who has our friend Robin and this girl." She points to a smudged photograph, grainy and clearly from one of the newspapers Robin had pinned to his walls for as long as they knew Slade was a threat. It's the most emotion she's displayed in weeks, and Cyborg let's his lips twist into a smile, glancing at first her then the door. 

"Why don't you come into the living room and and tell us what you've found?" He asks, ruthlessly crushing the hopeful note that wants to creep into his voice. Setting expectations will not help. Pressuring her will. Not. Help. 

Her face falls, looking down at her clothes, dirty and stained in the low light. They're frankly filthy and he understands the shame that pulls her shoulders down, weighing on the too thin bones. 

"It's alright, if you go get a shower, I can put those in the wash and get you a fresh outfit. Maybe Raven can braid your hair? And I know Beast Boy was going to try one of the recipes you wrote down, he wanted to thank you for finding vegan friendly ones, he's been looking for some more." And she's going to. He can see it as clear as day, the small relieved look she shoots him. Somehow, she's able to look grateful and embarrassed all at once, a graceful hand resting on his flesh bicep for a bare second before sliding off, as she stumbles closer to the bathroom, brief moments near flight as the possible connection lightens her mood enough her body tries to get airborne. 

Its relief that slumps his own shoulders now, tension releasing in a soft hiss of his servos, and he steps quickly back to the kitchen. There's a pile of dishes, worse than it's been since he can easily remember, but that can wait for another day. He has…

He has stuff to do.

Dishes can wait. His little family needs him, he can put off everything just a little longer. He…

He's fooling himself. Cyborg knows it, can see all the neat little red flags he's seeing in his friends painted over him as well. He can even see them all over Robin's behavior, how the other teen had always been withdrawn. If Robin were here, if Cyborg could just…

No. There's no use in considering what its. It's not healthy. A lot of their lives are not healthy. Cyborg can see that now.

Cyborg sighs, grabbing Starfire a fresh uniform and putting it in the bathroom, letting his footsteps be just loud enough to be heard over the soft sound of running water. Its improvement. He has to remember that. Improvement. That's what's important. 

Best Boy had, in fact, when Cyborg looks over at his friend, managed to get Raven to heal the jagged gash that had nearly torn his ear in half. There's a flushed scar, a deeper purplish green, where there had been a gaping wound. He was sitting at the table now, quietly pushing at a piece of paper from one hand to the other. Quiet, but not worryingly so. His ears, because Cyborg had been a fool before and was just now starting to pay attention to their angle and the moods they signify, were natural, neutral. Pensive, not upset. 

It's good enough. Improvement, he reminds himself wryly, lips lifting slight before falling back down. He doesn't have quite enough energy to maintain a smile. Not right now.

Cyborg starts on the dishes, making noise, filling the dead space with sound. It used to be voices, vibrant and laughing, not the clink and scraping swish of dishes, but… it's good enough. Beast Boy doesn't agree, his ears drooping a little as he walks over. 

"Cy?" He starts, tips of his ears twitching delicately. Cyborg now knows that means he's insecure, nervous. So he pushes away his own exhaustion, own nervousness, grateful he no longer has such obvious tells. 

"Yeah, BB?" It's hard. To pretend to be put together. To desperately scramble to hold together everyone else, when he's falling apart just as much. But they're relying on him. And Robin managed. Somehow. Cyborg can. Cyborg will.

"R- Robin's not coming back… is he?" The changeling sounded so small, so scared, Cyborg _has_ to put down the cloth he had been using to free porcelain from various blue-grey molds that may or may not be attempting to eat his metal fingers. Instead, he turns and pulls the younger boy into a hug. A tight, near crushing hug. Because Beast Boy sounded broken, in that moment. Like all the cracks spider webbing across his soul were growing wider, and unimaginable darkness lay just beyond. Darkness that held teeth and pain and claws waiting to be unleashed. Cyborg wasn't ready for that. Maybe he never would be. But, if he tried, maybe he could squeeze Beast Boy tightly enough that those cracks didn't widen any further. 

"I…" He doesn't know what to say. There is _nothing_ he can say. Nothing he can do, besides grip the younger man a little tighter. It has to hurt, it almost hurts Cyborg, but Beast Boy doesn't protest, does not whine or try to squirm away. But, he holds back, hands grabbing Cyborgs back, fingers scrambling against one of the cracks in the metal casing he finds there. It feels like he's trying to crawl inside Cyborg, make everything hurtful disappear. "I… don't think so."

The splash of tears, salty and hot, against his neck, on of the few human parts left on him, shouldn't hurt.

It does.

  


That night, dinner is subdued. Raven had overheard Beast Boy's and Cyborgs conversation, hands settling gently on the back of both their heads, to pull them closer to her. By silent, but emphatic agreement, they don't tell Starfire. Because. While they aren't expecting, aren't looking, for their friend to return alive, they will continue to look for his body. Give him a decent burial at least. 

Starfire, who did in fact come out clean and slightly better looking, seems to brighten a little when they're all gathered at the small table, around Beast Boy's closest approximation to the alien food she had tried to feed them so many times. It's different, Cyborg can see more human food minced into a red sauce that smelled… good. Strange. But good.

It tasted just as good as it looked, and soon the sink that had been freshly cleared was once again full. 

Starfire, an actual smile on her face, small and sad but still a smile, spreads the papers she had been so intensely focused on.

They are pictures, like Cyborg suspected Old. Dark gray and grainy. From a newspaper, probably. Some fluff piece. A school gym, some ten years ago, kids carefully packing meals and cards. For soldiers. Most heads are down, focused steadily on their work, but a few curious faces are staring up. Grinning into a camera. Only one little head is turned away, towards a figure in the back. 

There, barely a smudge in grey and black, a man stands. His hand is up, covering most of his face but… on his belt, Cyborg thinks he sees a mask. Two toned, right down the middle. And… was that shadow? Or were there two splotches of black? Eye holes?

The picture is hazy, especially being so old and the man so far back. They've searched on less. As a bonus, there's even a school and class name. Thin print proclaiming 'Mr. Greenberg's first grade class, teaming with the FFS, to provide meals for soldiers overseas.' 

"Good job, Star." He says, instead of the doubt lingering in the back of his mind. It's been a learning curve; he's been so slow at it. But slowly, he's learning how to lead. How had Robin done it? Kept his head high and strong, refused to waver in the slightest. Its exhausting. Cyborg hopes he's doing it right, is being the kind of person the other three could depend on. "I will start looking through online yearbooks, see who that little girl is, and who she's looking at."

He pauses, glancing around. Despite their talk earlier, despite what they _know_ to be more likely than finding Robin alive, Beast Boy is looking hopeful, his ears twitching up. Losing it, losing this new lead after months of going over the same cold facts, could very well shatter the youngest. He shouldn't let it go, should gently remind Beast Boy of the trembling question the boy had asked earlier. It's a losing battle. Cyborg isn't going to say anything, closing both his eyes for a moment before opening them again. If this falls through. He'll deal with it. Somehow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for talk of death of a close friend, depression, burnout, hopelessness and fear of abandonment. As well as a character believing he has been abadonded.   
> Be careful with yourself, friends, feel free to contact me with more questions


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